POEMS. 


POEMS 


BY 


CHARLES  G.  EASTMAN. 


MONTPELIER: 

EASTMAN  &  DANFORTH. 

1848, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848,  by 

I'M  A  RLE  i  G.  EAITHAN, 
In  the  Clerk'*  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Vermont. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

A    PICTURE 1 

THE    OLD    PINE    TREE 3 

PURER   THAN    SNOW 8 

THE    UNKNOWN   SLEEPER 9 

KATE    WAS    ONCE    A    LITTE    GIRL        ....  11 

MUTABILITY                   13 

OLD    TIME    STEALS    ON 14 

r 

SHE  IS  THE  LAST            ......  15 

SCENE  IN  A  VERMONT  WINTER       ....  17 

FANNY  HALL 21 

APRIL  RAIN 22 

THANATOS        ........  23 

THE  TOWN  PAUPER'S  BURIAL         ....  24 

THE  REAPER 2(> 

I   WOULD  THAT  HE   WERE  BACK,  AGAIN         .         .  28 

SIIK  I.IVKTII  15V  'I'HE  VALLEY  BKHOK             .        .  30 

MAKV   OF  TUF.   <;(,!.  N  32 


1823042 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

I    BLAME    T1IEE    NOT 34 

EVENING    IN    SUMMER 36 

HART    BLANE 38 

I'VE    THROWN    TiiKM    ALL    AWAY                    ...  40 

SHE    REIGNETH    IN    THIS    HEART    OF    MINE         .             .  42 

LILT 44 

THE    FIRST    SETTLER 46 

HER    GRAVE    19    BY    HER    MOTHER'S               ...  49 

-    IN    AUTUMN                  51 

PRATERS    FOR    A    SICK    CHILD               ....  53 

ISABEL                  56 

HOW    CALMLY    PASS    HER    QUIET    DAYS       ...  59 

WAY,   MOTHER    TELL    ME    NOT              ....  61 

SHE    PERISHED   ERE    HER    HEART    HAD    KNOWN          .  62 

WE    WEEP    IN    VAIN 64 

THE    KIDD-MAN 66 

AS    SCMMER    FADES    AWAY 7.1 

THE    DEFORMED 77 

I    SEE    HER   NOT 79 

OLD    MARGARET 82 

LOOKING    IN    THE    RIVER !  >i ! 

MBER 99 

SONG BRING    ME    A    CDP 102 

HELEN 105 

JOHN    SMITH                   108 

KNITTING 114 

11(J 

Tin:  AMF.IUCA-V ]]H 

THF.     '                          .1RV 121 

•  RTF       ....  IJt 


CONTENTS.  VU 

Page. 

MY    UNCLE    JERRY                  127 

THE    MOSS    ROSE    THAT    SHE    GAVE    ME                  .             .  139 

GONE          .........  141 

UP  THE  MOUNTAIN  VALLEY             ....  143" 

LOVE'S  VAGARIES            ......  145 

THE  LATE  SEASON 148 

COME  SING  ME  THE  SONGJ 152 

SONG  OF  THE  VERMONTERS             ....  154 

HUBERT  THE  NORMAN            156 

THE  APPLE  BLOSSOM 166 

LOVE  AND  THE  POET 168 

THE  HAUGHTY  MAIDEN 170 

TO  LIVE  UPON  HER  SMILE 173 

IF  THOU  THINK  TO  WIN  HER        ....  175 

COME  OVER  THE  MOUNTAIN  TO  ME,  LOVE             .  176 

TWENTY-NINE 178 

SHADOWS 181 

OP    LOVE    AND    WINE 184 

A    NEW    EUGENE    ARAM                  186 

I    SHOWED    MY    LOVE            ......  189 

DIRGE 190 

HALF    MY    LIFE    I    SPENT    IN    DREAMING                 .            .  192 

SWEETLY    SHE    SLEEPS                   .....  193 

COUNT    ZWAGERDORFF                  194 

LITTLE    BEL 198- 

MILL    MAY ,  200 

SPRING-TIME                  202" 

A    WIFE-SONG               .......  205 

THE    BLIND    BEGGAR              ....                            ,  20T 


POEMS, 


A  PICTURE. 


TriE  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair 

Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 
While  his  hale  old  wife  with  busy  care 

Was  clearing  the  dinner  away ; 
A  sweet  little  girl  with  fine  blue  eyes 
On  her  grandfather's  knee  was  catching  flies. 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  her  head, 

With  a  tear  on  his  wrinkled  face, 
lie  thought  how  often  her  mother,  dead, 

Had  sat  in  the  self-same  place  ; 
As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half-shut  eye, 
••  Don  't  smoke  !"  said  the  child.  "  how  it  makes  you  cry !" 


2  A   PICTURE. 

The  house-dog  lay,  stretched  out  on  the  floor 
Where  the  shade  after  noon  used  to  steal, 
The  busy  old  wife  by  the  open  door 
Was  turning  the  spinning  wheel, 
And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantle  tree 
Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three, — 

Still  the  fanner  sat  in  his  easy  chair, 
While  close  to  his  heaving  breast, 
The  moistened  brow  and  the  cheek  so  fair 

Of  his  sweet  grandchild  were  pressed ; 
His  head,  bent  down,  on  her  soft  hair  lay — 
Fast  asleep  were  they  both,  that  summer  day ! 


THE  OLD  PINE  TREE. 


BY  my  father's  house,  this  side  of  the  hill, 
As  you  followed  the  road  to  the  cider  mill, 

Was  the  swamp,  as  we  called  it,  then ; 
A  low,  wet  spot,  where  the  cat-bird  mewed, 
The  tadpole  bred  and  the  bull  frog  spughed, 

And  the  muskrat  built  his  den, 
And  stealing  out  from  his  hiding  hole 
Through  the  rotten  grass,  came  the  meadow-mole, 

To  peep  at  the  works  of  men. 

In  the  swamp,  on  a  knoll,  in  the  summer,  dry, 
But  half  covered  up,  when  the  water  was  high, 

A  magnificent  Pine  had  grown — 
Last  of  a  race  that  the  State  shall  see. 
Last  of  his  race  !  that  glorious  tree. 

Supreme  on  his  forest  throne. 
Like  a  mighty  man  of  wondrous  rhyme, 
Towering  above  the  rest  of  his  time. 


1IIK    OLD    1'IXK    TRKK. 
II. 

The  swamp  by  the  road  to  the  cider  mill, 
And  the  old  Pine  Tree,  I  remember  still, 

And  well,  you  will  think,  I  may, 
For  there  were  the  boys  of  the  village  seen 
When  the  ice  was  strong  or  the  leaves  were  green, 

In  summer  or  winter  at  play, 
Skating  flat  stones,  or  rolling  the  snow. 
Into  citadels,  forts,  and  such  things,  you  know. 

And  shouting  and  laughing  all  day. 

In  the  winter  time,  when  the  snow  was  deep, 
Through  the  drifts  by  the  old  slash-fence  they  'd  leap. 

And  tumble  each  other  in ; 

Then  all  hands  hold,  they  would  '  snap  the  snake !' — 
How  the  old  '  Red  Lion"  his  mane  would  shake, 

When  his  prey  he  chanced  to  win  ! 
And  then,  with  the  old  Pine  Tree  for  a  '</«<•/' 
They'd  play  '  1-spy'  till  'twa*  time  lor  the  school 

In  the  afternoon  to  begin. 

In  the  spring  when  the  winter  had  gone  to  the  north. 
And  the  weeds  on  the  knoll  came  peeping  forth, 

And  the  little  wild  flowers  lietween. 
When  the  lunls  swelled  out  in  the  April  sky, 
And  the  fanner  MIW  that  his  winter  rye 

Came  up  on  the  hill-side,  given, 
I 'ruin  the  three-months'  school  and  the  ferule  (roe. 
Flocking  around  the  old  Pine  Tree 

The  IM>_V  were  again  to  lie  «eeii. 


THE    OLD    TIM'.    THICK. 

And  there  on  the  grass  ibr  hours  they  'd  lie, 
Making  ships  and  things  of  clouds  in  the  sky. 

While  round  on  the  fragrant  lea, 
The  bob  o'link',  on  the  mullen  stalk, 
Would  rattle  away  like  a  sweet  girl's  talk, 

And  the  gay  yellow  birds,  d  'ye  see, 
Would  chirp  to  ea<;h  other  with  merry  call, 
As  they  swung  in  the  wind  on  the  weeds  so  tall, 

A  fine  little,  company. 

When  summer  came  and  the  weeds  were  thick. 
And  their  blood  grew  warlike,  warm  and  quick, 

The  train-baud  company, 
With  a  brake  for  a  plume  and  a  shingle  sword 
The,  gloomy  wilds  of  the  swamp  explored, 

Their  trowsers  rolled  to  the  knee  ; 
With  bricks  broke  in  two,  and  hands  full  of  stones, 
At  their  deadly  fire  how  the  cat-tail  groans, 

And  the  hosts  of  the  thistle  flee  ! 

'Fore  George  !  what  a  siege  we  had  one  time 
With  a  saucy  old  frog  who  lived  in  the  slime 

Of  a  lordly  pool  at  the  south  ! 

How  he'd  dodge-  out  ot  sight,  till  our  hail  hud  *ped. 
Then  poke  up  again  his  great,  green  head. 

And  wink  in  the  cannon's  mouth  ! 
The  bricks  round  his  head  went,  thud!  thud!  thud! 
Till  the  captain  lisped,  all  (Jeered  with  1)1-  mud. 

'•  We  can  never  tcliilowu  hith  houth." 


THK    01. I>    TIXK    TREE. 

There  many  an  hour  thanksgiving  day. 
When  the  ice  was  glare,  the  girls  used  to  stay 

And  share  in  our  glorious  fun, 
While  the  shouting  boys,  with  cap  in  hand, 
Would  chase  them  off"  from  the  ice  to  the  land. 

Till  the  Governor's  meeting  was  done; 
Till  grace  was  said,  the  turkey  carved, 
The  mince'-pie  cooled  and  the  pudding  s«rved. 

And  the  LTUVV  too  cold  to  run. 


in. 

They  are  gone,  ah,  me  !  those  merry  boys, 
All  gone  from  the  scene  of  their  early  joys, 

Alas,  that  it  should  be  so ! 

Some  have  gone  to  the  west  to  shake  with  the  ague, 
And  some  to  the  south  to  die  with  that  plague- 

Y  Jack,  '  Yellow  Jack,'  you  know ; 
One 's  made  a  great  spec*  in  Missouri  lead, 
And  one,  they  say,  got  a  broken  head 

At  the  fall  of  Alamo: 


And  one  has  gone  where  the  soft  winds  blow 
O'er  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Val  d' Arno, 

With  his  wife  and  children,  two, 
And  his  cheek  has  trained  the  ^low  it  lost 
In  our  northern  land  of  snow  and  fro.-t: 

OIK-  's  in  Kalama/oo; 


THE    OLD    PIXE    TREE. 


And  one  through  the  drifts  of  a  northwest  snow 
Tracks  the  prairie  wolf  and  the  buffalo, 
With  a  tribe  of  wild  Sioux. 


IV. 

The  swamp  is  ditched :  where  the  leaves  used  to  [ioat, 
A  Frenchman  has  raised  some  '  vary  fine  oat,' — 

The  frogs  have  all  hopped  off, 

And  the  little  green  knoll,  where  the  boys  used  to  play 
Through  the  spring  and  the  fall  and  the  winter  day, 

And  the  cares  of  manhood  scoff, 
Is  gouged  by  a  premium  Berkshire  brood — • 
And  the  old  Pine  Tree,  by  the  great  high  road, 

Is  used  for  a  watering  trough. 


PURER  THAN  SNOW. 


PUREK  than  snow, 
Is  a  girl  I  know ; 

Purer  than  snow  is  she  ; 
Her  heart  is  light, 
And  her  cheek  is  bright — 

Ah  !  who  do  vou  think  she  can  be  ? 


/  know  very  well, 
But  I  never  shall  tell, 

'Twould  spoil  all  the  fun,  you  see ; 
Her  eye  is  blue, 
And  her  lip  like  dew, 

And  rod  as  a  mulberry. 


Mild  as  a  dove, 
Is  a  girl  I  love ; 

Mild  as  a  dove  is  she, 
And  dearer  too, 
Than  ten  like  you, — 

Ah  !  who  do  you  think  she  can  b«  ? 


THE  UNKNOWN  SLEEPER. 


BENEATH  an  aged  locust  tree 

Upon  the  blue  Lamoille, 
Where  all  the  summer  day,  the  bee 

Works  at  her  busy  toil, 
By  brake  and  grass  and  vine  o'ergrowu, 
A  child's  unlettered  grave  is  shown. 

None  know  how  long  the  sod  hath  been 

Above  the  sleeper's  breast, 
And  none  can  tell  the  stranger  when 

The  child  was  laid  to  rest ; 
No  kindred  hath  it  left  to  tell 
Its  birth,  its  death  or  burial. 

Long,  long  ago,  they'll  tell  you,  when 
The  deer  came  there  to  drink, 

Before  a  hut  in  all  the  glen 
Stood  on  the  river's  brink, 

A  hunter  in  his  wanderings  found 

The  locust  and  the  gentle  mound. 


10  THE    UNKNOWN   SLEEPER. 

And  since,  though  sire  and  son,  the  land 

Have  tilled  with  thrifty  care, 
Yet  all  have  let  the  locust  stand, 

And  still  the  grave  is  there, 

Beside  the  river  on  the  plain 

^ 

Of  waving  grass  and  yellow  grain. 

About  the  mound  they  've  built  a  pale 

Of  rude  and  artless  form, 
Through  which  the  bending  meadow  swail 

Sighs  in  the  autumn  storm ; 
And  where  their  young  the  ground  birds  feed 
Among  the  grass  and  yellow  weed. 

As  'twere  their  own,  that  nameless  child, 

They  watch  its  long  repose 
Beneath  the  brake  and  briar  wild, 

The  strawberry  and  the  rose ; 
And  every  spring  an  hour  they  save 
To  mend  the  pale  that  guards  the  grave. 


KATE  WAS  ONCE  A  LITTLE  GIRL. 


KATE  was  once  a  little  girl, 
Heigh-ho!  heigh-ho! 

Eyes  of  blue  and  teeth  of  pearl, 
Heigh-ho !  heigh-ho ! 

In  the  spring  when  school  was  done, 

Full  of  life  and  full  of  fun, 

O  'er  the  hills  away  she  'd  run, 
Heigh-ho !  heigh-ho ! 


Gentle  breezes  all  the  day, 

Heigh-ho !  heigh-ho ! 

Through  her  sunny  locks  would  play, 
Heigh-ho !  heigh-ho ! 

All  her  thoughts  were  pure  and  bright 

As  the  stars  we  see  at  night, 

Shining  with  a  joyous  light, 

Heigh-ho !  heigh-ho ! 


I'-'  KATK    WAs    <>.\<   ].    A     LITT1.K    (JU![ 


Kate  's  a  little  older  now, 

Ilrigh-ho!  hcigh-ho  ! 

Still  as  fair  her  radiant  brow, 
Heigh-ho  !  heigh-ho  ! 

Still  on  her  cheek  as  brightly  play* 

The  sunshine  of  her  youthful  da\<. 

And  still  as  sweet  her  girlish  ways, 
Hrigh-ho!  heigh-ho! 


Kate  will  always  be  the  same, 
HrUrh-ho!  heigh-ho! 
She  '11  never  change,  except  in  name  ! 

Hi-igh-ho!  heigh-ho! 
So  gently  time  shall  steal  away, 
Sin-  '11  always  be  as  bright  and  gay 
As  when  she  laughed  in  girlhood's  day. 
Heigh-ho !  hcigh-ho ! 


MUTABILITY. 


ALAS  !  how  soon  the  heart  forgets 
Its  wildest,  deepest  pain ! 

A  tear  an  hour  the  eyelid  wets, 
And  all  is  joy  again ! 

Still  rushes  on  the  tide  of  men 

As  though  the  past  had  never  been. 


A  year,  one  year,  is  scarcely  gone, 
Since,  in  the  dreary  fall, 

We  heaped  the  frozen  clay  upon 
Thi!  dearest  of  us  all; 

And  now,  alas !  as  'twere  a  dream, 

The  memory  of  that  day  doth  seem. 


She  was  our  life  but  yestermorn, 
And  by  her  tombstone  now, 

We  sing  and  plant  the  yellow  corn, 
And  drive  the  furrowing  plough, 

As  gay  as  though  beneath  that  stone 

\Vi'ro  sleeping  one  we  'd  never  known. 


OLD  TIME  STEALS  ON. 


Old  Time  steals  on  and  away  he  goes  ! 

Away  he  goes,  goes  he, 
lie  stealeth  away  and  nobody  knows 

Whence  cometh  or  goeth  he. 
He  iingereth  never  for  rich  or  for  poor, 
For  palace  or  hovel,  for  prince  or  for  boor, 
O'er  the  grave  and  the  cradle  he  glideth  along, 
And  alike  amid  sorrow,  alike  amid  song, 

Old  Time  steals  on  and  away  he  goes .' 

Away  he  goes,  goes  he, 
He  stealeth  away  and  novody  kn 
Whence  cometh  or  goeth  he. 


From  youth  to  age,  how  quick  is  his  flight  ! 
From  night  to  morn,  from  morning  to  night  ' 
And  hurrying  on  in  his  own  silent  way, 
Mid  thf  snow*  of  Di'1'nulnT  ihr  Mo^om.-  ut'  .May. 

Old  Thni'  >•/•  a !.<  nt,  nuit  iiirni/  /»•  <)<>,  >•  / 

Au'd'/  /i-  -  he, 

He  stealeth  away  and  nohndy  kn>»n 
Whence  coined'  »r  <i»t/l>  //.-. 


OLD    TIME    STKALS   ON.  15 

For  war  or  for  peace,  for  loss  or  for  gain, 
For  love  and  for  hate,  for  pleasure  or  pain, 
For  grace  or  dishonor,  for  glory  or  shame, 
Not  a  moment  he  tarries,  but,  ever  the  same, 

Old  Time  steals  on  and  away  he  goes  ! 

Away  lie  goes,  goes  he, 
He  stealeth  away  and  nobody  knows 
Whence  cometh  or  goeth  he. 


Well !  since  it  is  settled,  that  this  is  the  way 
Old  Time  dashes  on  with  us,  day  after  day, 
Sweet  girls  !  while  in  handfulls,  we  pile  on  his  wing 
The  soft,  dewy  roses  of  Love,  let  us  sing 

Old  Time  steals  on  and  away  he  goes, 

Away  he  goes,  goes  he  ! 
He  stealeth  away  and  nobody  knows 
Whence  cometh  or  goeth  he. 


S  H  E  I  S  T  H  E  L  A  S  T  ! 


is  the  last  of  all  that  God 

Has  given  to  our  hearth, 
Two  brothers  sleep  beneath  the  sod — 

They  perished  at  their  birth ; 
Ah  !  fondly  did  we  hope  that  she 
Would  live  through  her  frail  infancy. 


She  is  the  last,  and  there  she  lies ! 

Beneath  the  locust  tree 
We  've  laid  to  rest  with  streaming  eyes, 

The  last  of  all  the  three ; 
We've  heaped  the  clay  above  her  breast, 
And  left  her  sleeping  with  the  rest. 


She  is  the  last ;  we  give  her  up 
With  silent  lips  to  Heaven  ; 

Submissively  we  take  the  cup, 
'Tis  bitter,  but  'tis  given  ; 

And  trusting  still  in  Him  who  gave, 

We  yield  our  last  hope  to  the  grave. 


SCENE  IN  A  VERMONT  WINTER 


'Tis  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter  time, 

As  cold  as  it  ever  can  be ! 
The  roar  of  the  storm  is  heard  like  the.  chime 

Of  the  waves  on  an  angry  sea. 
The  moon  is  full,  but  her  silver  light, 
The  storm  dashes  out,  with  its  wings,  to-night, 
And  over  the  sky  from  south  to  north, 
Not  a  star  is  seen,  as  the  winds  come  forth 

In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  glee. 


n. 

All  day  the  snow  came  down, — all  day 

As  it  never  came  down  before, 
And  over  the  earth,  at  night,  there  lay 

Some  two  or  three  feet  or  more ; 
The  fence  was  lost  and  the  wall  of  stone, 
The  windows  blocked  and  the  well-curb  gone, 
The  haystack  grown  to  a  mountain  lift, 
And  the  woodpile  looked  like  a  monster  drift 
As  it  lay  by  the  farmer's  door. 
2 


18  SCENE  IN   A   VERMONT   WINTER. 


As  the  night  set  in,  came  hail  and  snow, 
And  the  air  grew  sharp  and  chill, 

And  the  warning  roar  of  a  terrible  blow 
AVas  heard  on  the  distant  hill ; 

And  the  Norther !  see !  on  the  mountain  peak, 

In  his  breath,  how  the  old  trees  writhe  and  shriek ! 

He  shouts  along  o  Vr  the  plain,  ho !  ho ! 

He  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blinding  snow, 
And  growls  with  a  savage  will. 


in. 


Such  a  night  as  this  to  be  found  abroad 

In  the  snow  and  the  stinging  air, 
A  shivering  dog,  in  the  field,  by  the  road, 

When  the  hail,  through  his  shaggy  hair, 
The  wind  drives  hard,  doth  crouch  and  growl, 
And  shut  his  eyes  with  a  dismal  howl ; 
Then  to  shield  himself  from  the  cutting  sleet, 
His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  quivering  feet — 
Pray  what  does  the  dog  do  there  ? 


His  master  came  from  the  town  to-night, 

And  lost  the  traveled  way, 
A  ud  for  hours  he  trod  with  main  and  might, 

A  path  for  his  horse  and  sleigh, 


SCENE   IN   A   VERMONT   WINTER.  19 


But  deeper  still  the  snow  drifts  grew, 
And  colder  still  the  fierce  wind  blew, 
And  his  mare,  a  beautiful  Morgan,  brown, 
At  last  o  'er  a  log  had  floundered  down, 
That  deep  in  a  huge  drift  lay. 


Many  a  plunge,  with  a  frenzied  snort, 

She  made  in  the  heavy  snow, 
And  her  master  strove,  till  his  breath  grew  short, 

With  a  word  and  a  gentle  blow ; 
But  the  snow  was  deep  and  the  tugs  were  tight, 
His  hands  were  numb  and  had  lost  their  might, 
So  he  struggled  back  to  his  sleigh  again, 
And  strove  to  shelter  himself,  in  vain, 

With  his  coat  and  his  buffalo. 


IV. 


He  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of  the  rein 

To  rouse  up  his  dying  steed, 
And  the  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast  in  vain, 

For  help  in  his  master's  need. 
He  strives  for  awhile  with  a  wistful  eye 
To  catch  but  a  glance  from  his  heavy  eye, 
And  wags  his  tail  if  the  rude  wind  flap 
The  skirt  of  his  coat  across  his  lap, 

And  whines  that  he  takes  no  heed. 


20  SCENE   IN    A   VERMONT   WINTER. 


The  wind  goes  down — the  storm  is  o'er, 

"l]is  the  hour  of  midnight,  past, 
The  forest  writhes  and  bends  no  more 

In  the  rush  of  the  mighty  Ua>t. 
The  moon  looks  out  with  a  silver  light 
On  the  high  old  hills  with  the  snow  all  white, 
And  the  giant  shadow  of  Camel's  Hump, 
Of  ledge  and  tree  and  ghostly  stump, 
On  the  silent  plain  are  ca.st. 


But  there  are  they,  by  the  hidden  log, 

Who  came  that  night  from  the  town, 
All  dead ! — the  man  and  his  faithful  dog 
And  his  beautiful  Morgan,  brown  ! 
He  sits  in  his  sleigh,  his  face  is  bland, 
With  his  cap  on  his  head  and  the  reins  in  his  hand, 
The  dog  with  his  head  on  his  master's  feet, 
And  the  horse  half  seen  through  the  crusted  sleet. 
Where  she  lav  when  she  floundered  down. 


FANNY  HALL. 


THE  sweetest  girl  of  all  I  know 

Is  charming  Fanny  Hall ; 
The  wildest  at  a  husking, 

The  gayest  at  a  ball ; 
Her  cheek  is  like  a  Jersey  peach, 

Her  eye  is  blue  and  clear, 
And  her  lip  is  like  the  sumac, 

In  the  Autumn  of  the  year. 

Canova  never  made  a  hand 

Like  hers  so  plump  and  fair ; 
Poor  Raphael  had  been  crazed  with  her 

Madonna  brow  and  hair ; 
And  I  'm  inclined  to  think  if  Powers 

Could  see  her,  he  would  grieve, 
To  find  a  romping  Yankee  girl 

Had  beaten  Mrs.  Eve ! 

There  's  not  a  blemish  in  her  form, 

No  fault  about  her  face — 
Sit  down  and  gaze  from  morn  till  night — - 

You  '11  find  her  perfect  grace ; 
And  then,  to  finish  all,  her  voice  ! 

From  the  sweetest  bird's  in  spring 
You  couldn  't  tell  its  warble ;  but 

She  "  doe?n  't  know  a  thin" !" 


APRIL  RAIN. 


GENTLY  fall  upon  the  plain 
April  rain ! 

Bless  the  oak  and  maple  bud, 
Rouse  the  faint  and  sickly  flood, 
But  the  gentle  flowers, 

Tender  leaf  and  blow, 
Ah !  the  heavy  showers, 
Kill  them  where  they  grow. 


Do  thy  mission  on  the  plain 
April  rain ! 

Bless  the  grass  and  apple  bud, 
Cheer  the  faint  and  sickly  flood, 
But  the  gentle  flower, 

On  the  meadow's  breast, 
Spare  its  little  hour, 
Short  enough,  at  best ! 


THANATOS. 


HUSH  !  her  face  is  chill, 

And  the  summer  blossom, 
Motionless  and  still, 

Lieth  in  her  bosom ; 
On  the  shroud  so  white, 

(Like  snow  in  winter  weather,) 
Her  marble  hands  unite, 

Quietly  together. 


n. 

Closed,  the  soft  eye  lid 

On  the  thin  cheek  presses, 
Still  her  neck  is  hid 

With  her  golden  tresses ; 
And  her  lips,  that  Death, 

Left  a  smile  to  sever, 
Seem  wooing  back  the  breath, 

Gone,  alas !  forever. 


THE  TOWN  PAUPER'S  BURIAL. 


BURY  him  there — 

No  matter  where ! 
Hustle  him  out  of  the  way  ! 

Trouble  enough 

We  have  with  such  stuff — 
Taxes  and  money  to  pay. 


Bury  him  there — 

No  matter  where ! 
Off  in  some  corner  at  best! 

There 's  no  need  of  stones, 

Above  his  old  bones — 
Nobody  '11  ask  where  they  rest. 


Bury  him  there — 
No  matter  where ! 
None  by  his  death  are  bereft ; 


THE    TOWN    PAUl'KK'S    BURIAL.  25 


Stopping  to  pray  ? 
Shovel  away ! 
We  still  have  enough  of  them  left. 


Bury  him  there — 

No  matter  where ! 
Any  where  out  of  the  way ! 

Trouble  enough 

We  have  with  such  stuff — 
Taxes  and  money  to  pay. 


THE  REAPER. 


BENDING  o  'er  his  sickle, 

Mid  the  yellow  grain, 
Lo,  the  sturdy  reaper, 

Reaping  on  the  plain ! 
Singing  as  the  sickle 

Gathers  to  his  hand, 
Rustling  in  its  ripeness, 

The  plory  of  his  land. 


Mark  the  grain  before  him, 

Swaying  in  the  wind, 
And  the  even  gavel 

Following  behind ! 
Bound,  in  arm-full  bundles, 

Standing  one  by  one, 
The  yester  morning's  labor 

Ripens  in  tho  sun. 


THE   REAPEB. 


27 


Long  I  've  stood  and  pondered, 

Gazing  from  the  hill, 
While  the  sturdy  reaper 

Sung  and  labored  still ; 
Bending  o  'er  his  sickle, 

Mid  the  yellow  grain, 
Happy  and  contented, 

Reaping  on  the  plain ; 


And  as  upon  my  journey, 

I  leave  the  maple  tree, 
Thinking  of  the  difference 

Between  the  man  and  me, 
I  turn  again,  to  see  him, 

Reaping  on  the  plain, 
And  almost  wish  my  labor, 

Were  the  sickle  and  the  grain. 


I  WOULD  THAT  HE  WERE  BACK! 


I  WOULD  that  he  were  back,  agaiu, 

From  lands  beyond  the  sea ! 
I  cannot  bear  to  hear  them  say — - 

'  He  will,  be  false  to  tli< •<• '.' 
I  know  'tis  childish — idle — weak — 

I  know  'tis  wrong  in  ine, 
But  yet,  I  would  that  he  were  back, 

From  lands  beyond  tin  | 


I  would  that  he  were  back,  again  ! 

While,  he  is  far  away, 
They  breathe  their  .slanders  in  my  ear, 

Through  all  the  weary  day  ; 

harsh,  they  say,  and  proud  and  cold, 

That  one  bejond  the  9CE, 
Hi-  may  be  so  to  them,  ju-rhap-. 

He  never  was  to  me. 


I    WOULD   THAT   HK    WERK    BACK,  AGAIN.  29 


I  would  that  lie  were  back,  again, 

To  crush  this  servile  throng ! 
One  glance  from  his  indignant  eye — 

Why  is  he  gone  so  long  '? 
Oh  !  if  he  knew,  how  I  have  borne, 

As  none  but  Heaven  knows, 
The  doubtings  of  his  fickle  friends, 

The  insults  of  his  foes ! 


I  would  that  he  were  back,  again  ! 

'Tis  hard  to  hear  them  say, 
Ambition  or  another's  love 

Prolongs  his  weary  stay. 
I  fear  him  not !  his  love  is  true  ! 

And  yet,  though  weak,  in  me, 
I  would  that  he  were  back,  again, 

From  lands  beyond  the  sea ! 


SHE  LIVETH  BY  THE  VALLEY 
BROOK. 


SHE  liveth  by  the  valley  brook, 

Away  from  care  and  wrong, 
HIT  heart  a  pure  and  open  book, 

Her  lip  a  mellow  song. 
A  mother,  meek  and  old,  is  all 

The  kindred  that  she  knows, — 
Her  playmates  are  the  waterfall, 

And  every  flower  that  blows. 


She  singeth  when  the  earth  is  spread 

With  green,  and  spring  has  come, 
And  weepeth  when  the  flowers  are  dead, 

And  her  sweet  brook  is  dumb. 
And  thus  the  gentle  maiden's  life 

Steals  quietly  away, 
Without  a  shade  of  care  or  strife 

To  cloud  its  summer  day. 


SHE  LIVETH   BY   THE   VALLEY  BROOK.  31 

She  liveth  by  the  valley  brook, 

Away  from  care  and  wrong, 
Her  heart  a  pure  and  open  book, 

Her  lip  a  mellow  song ; 
Ah !  never  may  the  maiden  dream 

Of  this  sad  world  of  ours, 
Or  stray  beyond  her  sister  stream, 

Its  valley  and  its  flowers. 


MARY  OF  THE  GLEN. 


«    Has  anybody  spoke  for  you, 

Mary  of  the  Glen? 
Is  there  a  heart  that's  Irokefor  you, 

M'iry  of  the  Glen? 
I  have  lands  and  I  have  leases, 

I  have  gold  and  cattle,  too, 
I  have  sheep  with  finest  llreces — 
Can  I  marry  you  ? 


,  .vj'r,  has  spoke  for  me, 
Mury  of  the  Glen, 

is  no  heart  that's  broke  for  me, 

'thi:  (lien ; 
Hut  there  is  lilric-,-vc(l  Willie, 

\\'tio  labors  with  the  men, 
Who  lir'mj."<  the  sweet 
To  Marv  of  the  (il«-n  ! 


MARY   OF   THE   GLEN.  33 


He  has  neither  lands  nor  leases, 

But  his  cheek  is  cherry  red, 
And  finer  than  your  fleeces 
Are  the  curls  upon  his  head, 

And  though  he 's  never  spoke  for  me, 

I  know  he  loves  me  true, 
And  his  heart  it  would  be  broke  for  me, 

If  I  should  marry  you. 
3 


I  BLAME  THEE  NOT! 


I  BLAME  tliec  not ! — I  knew  it  all, 

Before  a  glance  from  thec, 
Could  stir  my  heart  as  doth  the  wind 

The  slumber  of  the  sea ; 
I  knew,  before  thy  presence  made 

Of  this  fair  life  a  part, 
Another,  many  a  year  had  been 

The  idol  of  thy  heart 


I  never  strove  to  check  a  love 

So  hopeless,  and  so  bright, 
Like  some  sweet  star  the  school-boy  sees 

In  the  far  heavens  at  night ; 
And  though,  at  times,  there  came  a  thought, 

That  I  was  wronging  thee, 
I  could  not  quench  that  star  myself, 

For  it  was  life  to  me. 


I  never  wished  to  steal  a  look, 
<  )r  thought  of  thine,  from  him. 

ild  not  for  the  world  have  seen 
His  worshipped  light  grow  dim; 


I    BLAMK    TIIEK    NOT.  35 

I  never  meant  to  let  thee  know, — 

God  grant  I  never  did ! 
That  in  my  heart  I  nursed  for  thee 

A  love,  that  love  forbid. 


So — hoping  without  hope,  I  loved ; 
Too  blest  to  think  how  fast 

The  hour  was  stealing  on  me  when 
I  must  awake — 'tis  past ! 

The  fault  was  mine — I  knew  it  all—- 
And yet,  despite  this  pain, 

As  I  have  loved,  I  dare  not  say, 
I  should  not  love  again. 


Well !  Southern  suns  will  soon  renew 

Thy  cheeks  half-perished  health, 
While  he,  God  bless  him !  proudly  shares 

Thy  heart's  long-treasured  wealth, 
The  bark  that  bears  thee  from  the  North, 

With  sails  set  for  the  sea, 
Is  fading  on  the  misty  main — 

Good-bye  to  that  and  thee  ! 


EVENING  IN  SUMMER. 


I'm  Min  has  set  at  last!  the  sky, 

That  all  the  hot  and  stifling  day, 
Hung  like  a  burning  arch  on  high, 

Grows,  as  the  fierce  heat  dies  away, 
Cool  and  refreshing ;  o  'er  the  glades 

The  hills  loom  giant-like  and  grim, 
And  meadows,  in  the  misty  shades 

Of  night,  look  shadowy  and  dim. 


Tin-  sun  is  down,  yet,  in  the  west 
I-  lingering  -till  the  day's  last  light, 

Around*  the  hills  his  glory  blest, 

\Vlu-n  sinking  slowly  from  the  sight; 

And,  far  above  the  mountain  brown, 
Along  the  dreamy  azure,  sleep 

Tin-  vmull,  wliit«  clouds,  liki-  Infix  •  if  down 
ii  tilt-  UKOIII  of  tin- 


EVENING    IN   SUMMER.  37 


As  twilight  fades,  how  all  the  earth 

The  night  with  solemn  gladness  fills ! 
The  moon,  as  fair  as  at  her  birth, 

Where  heaven  is  wedded  to  the  hills, 
Through  fleecy  clouds  around  her  flung, 

Wheels  up  beside  the  same  sweet  star, 
That,  with  her,  when  the  sky  was  young, 

Looked  over  Eden  from  afar. 


Beneath  the  moon  the  wild  brook  learns 

Its  own  sweet  music ;  o  'er  the  plain, 
The  latened  husbandman  returns, 

Rejoicing  to  his  home  again, 
While,  from  the  dense  old  forest  trees, 

Where,  shrouded  from  the  scorching  heat, 
All  day  it  slept,  the  evening  breeze 

Comes  sweeping  up  the  dusty  street ; 


And  passing  on  its  mission,  goes 

To  cool  the  parched  and  fevered  soil, 
To  bless  the  fainting  vine  that  throws 

Its  tendrills  round  the  door  of  toil, 
And  stir  the  myriad  leaves,  until 

Their  rising  murmur  swells  along 
With  all  life's  utterances,  that  fill 

The  world  with  a  perpetual  song. 


MARY  BLANK. 


'•  ;i  health  to  thee,  .Mary  Blane ! 
Hen-  'i  a  health  to  thce,  Mary  Blane ! 
Here  's  a  health  to  the  girl  that  I  loved  when  a  boy, 

Though  I  never  shall  see  her  again. 
Tis  right  to  remember  old  friends, 
"Tis  well,  is  it  not,  Mary  Blane  ? 
When  the  heart '«  growing  old  and  the  blood 's  getting 

cold, 
To  live  our  first  love  o  'or  again ! 

rah  for  thee,  Mary  Blane! 

t>,>  • ,  M<iry  Blane! 

Ilnrrnlt  fur  the  yirl  that  J  loved  when  a  Imi/. 
I  iif-n-r  ahull  see.  her  ayain! 


MARY    BLANK.  39 


Here  "s  a  health  to  thee,  Mary  Blane  ! 

Here  's  a  health  to  thee,  Mary  Blane ! 
To  thee,  wherever  thou  art,  Mary  Blane  ! 

This  full  glass  of  sherry  I  drain. 
'Twas  a  sweet  little  time  that  we  had, 

A  nice  little  time,  Mary  Blane ! 
And  with  sorrow  I  think,  while  I  scribble  and  drink, 
We  shall  see  no  more  like  it  again  ! 

Hurrah  for  thee,  Mary  Blane  ! 

Here 's  a  health  to  thee,  Mary  Blane  ! 
Though  the  wine  that  I  drink,  in  my  head, 

Mary  Blane, 
Like  thy  lore  in  my  heart,  leave  a  pain  ! 


I'VE  THROWN  THEM  ALL  AWAY! 


I  'VE  thrown  them  all  away !  away  ! 

And  not  a  single  token, 
Is  left  me  to  recall  the  day, 

His  fickle  vows  were  spoken. 
The  scarf  he  o  'er  my  shoulders  threw, 

The  ring,  (his  name  was  on  it,) 
His  card,  the  flowers,  the  billet-doux, 

The  warm  and  flattering  sonnet — 
Away !  away ! 

I  've  thrown  them  all  away ! 


I  've  thrown  them  all  away !  away ! 

And  brightly  on  the  morrow, 
Will  beam  the  eye  that  yesterday, 

Was  dimmed  an  hour  with  sorrow. 
The  chain,  the  lute,  the  singing  bird, 
rThc  books  he  used  to  bring  me, 
The  letters  which  my  tears  have  blurred, 

The  songs  he  used  to  sing  me — 
Away !  away ! 

I'vo  thrown  them  all  away ! 


I'VE   THKOWX   THEM   ALL   AWAY.  41 


I  've  thrown  them  all  away !  away ! 

All  thoughts  of  the  false-hearted, 
And  now  my  heart 's  as  wild  and  gay, 

As  though  we  'd  never  parted ; 
The  glow  is  on  my  cheek  again, 

And  every  idle  token, 
He  left  me  to  recall  the  pain, 

Of  vows  so  falsely  spoken — 
Away !  away ! 

I  've  thrown  them  all  away ! 


SHE  REIGNETH  IN  THIS  HEART 
OF  MINE. 


s  1 1  K  reigneth  in  this  heart  of  mine ! 

My  beautiful,  my  own, 
She  rt-igneth  in  this  heart  of  mine, 

A  queen  upon  her  throne, 
Ami  I,  a  poor  and  humble  man. 
Yield  to  her  rule  as  best  I  c;in 

Slu-  rei^neth  iii  this  heart  of  mine! 
!'.\  ni<;ht  :m<!  nil  the  day 

:-'-ij_'ii«-th  in  this  heart  of  mine, 
Ami  1  havp  naught  to  say, 

,  now-and-then,  to  sigh,  ah-me  ! 
Was  ever  Mich  h:n-h  tyranny! 


SHE    RKIOXKTH    IX    THIS    HEART    OF    MIXE.  43 


Sht-  reigneth  in  tliis  heart  of  mine. 

All  rivalry  hath  flown ; 
She  reigneth  in  this  heart  of  mine 

Despotic  and  alone. 
I  strove  awhile  against  the  chain, 
But  I  shall  never  strive  acrain  ! 


She  reigneth  in  this  heart  of  mine 
A  queen  upon  her  throne, 

She  reigneth  in  this  heart  of  mine 
As  though  it  were  her  own, — 

So  long  a  slave,  I  cannot  tell, 

If  to  be  free  were  now  as  well. 


LILY. 


LILY  !  Lily  !  pretty  Lily ! 

With  your  lips  apart, 
Tell  me,  here  among  the  lilacs, 

Have  you  found  a  heart  ? 


Mine  la  gone,  I  cannot  find  it, 
Searching  in  the  dew, 

Yesterday  I  must  have  lost  it, 
Playing  here  with  you. 


Lily !  Lily !  have  you  found  it  ? 

Cruel !  ah,  I  see  ! — 
Pity  on  a  heartless  rhymer ! 

(Jive  it  back  to  me! 


LILY.  45 


Lily  dear ! — away  she  bounded ! 

Laughing  as  she  flew, 
And  my  heart,  into  the  lilacs, 

From  her  bosom  threw. 


Glad  I  seized  the  treasure,  hidden 

In  a  rose  half  blown, 
Lily !  Lily !  careless  Lily ! 

Ah,  it  was  her  own  ! 


THE  FIRST  SETTLER. 


His  hair  is  white  as  the  winter  snow, 
His  years  are  many,  as  you  may  know, 

Some  eighty-two  or  three, 
Yet  a  bale  old  man,  still  strong  and  stout, 
And  able  when  'tis  fair,  to  go  out, 

His  friends  in  the  street  to  see ; 
He  built  in  the  town  the  first  log  hut, 
And  he  is  the  man,  they  say,  who  cut 

The  first  old  forest  tree. 


He  came  to  the  state  when  the  town  was  new, 
When  the  lordly  pine  and  the  hemlock  grew 

In  the  place  where  the  Court  House  stands : 
When  the  stunted  ash  and  the  alder  black, 
The  slender  fir  and  the  tamarack, 

Stood  thick  on  the  meadow  lands ; 
And  where  the  street  comes  up  from  tho  south. 
Was  tilt-  HM<I  hr  iiiitrknl  from  the  ri\.-r'.-  mouth 

•  >n  the  trees  with  his  own  stioti'-  It  > 


THE    FIRST    SKTTLKK.  4? 


For  many  an  hour  I  have  heard  him  tell 
Of  the  time,  he  says,  he  remembers  well, 

When  high  on  the  rock  he  stood, 
And  nothing  met  his  wandering  eye, 
Above,  but  the  clouds  and  the  broad  blue  sky, 

And  below,  the  waving  wood ; 
And  how  at  night,  the  wolf  would  howl 
Round  his  huge  log  fire,  and  the  panther  growl, 

And  the  black  fox  bark  by  the  road. 


In  the  village,  here,  where  the  trees  are  seen 
Circling  about  the  beautiful  green, 

He  planted  his  first  hill  of  corn, 
And  there,  where  you  see  that  long  brick  row, 
Swelling  with  silk  and  calico, 

Stood  the  hut  he  built,  one  morn ; 
Old  central  street  was  his  pasture  lane, 
And  down  by  the  church,  he  will  put  his  cane 

On  the  spot  where  his  boys  were  born. 


He  looks  with  pride  on  the  village  grown 
So  large  on  the  land  that  he  used  to  own, 

And  still  as  he  sees  the  wall 
Of  huge  blocks  built,  in  less  than  the  tiino 
It  took,  when  he  was  fresh  in  his  prime, 

To  gather  his  crops  in  the  fall, 


48  I  III.    MUST    SETTLER. 


He  thinks,  with  the  work  that,  somehow,  he 
Is  identified  and  must  oversee 
And  superintend  it  all. 


His  hair  is  white  as  the  driven  snow, 
And  his  years  are  many  as  you  may  know, 

Some  eighty-two  or  three, 
Yet  all  who  s^e  his  face  will  pray, 
For  many  a  long  and  quiet  day 

By  the  Lord's  good  grace,  that  he, 
May  be  left  in  the  land,  still  hale  and  stout, 
And  able  still  when  'tis  fair  to  go  out, 

Hi<  tVieinK  in  the  street  to  see. 


HER  GRAVE  IS  BY  HER  MOTHER'S. 


HER  grave  is  by  her  mother's, 
Where  the  strawberries  grow  wild, 

And  there  they  've  slept  for  many  a  year, 
The  mother  and  the  child. 


She  was  the  frailest  of  us  all, 
And  from  her  mother's  breast, 

We  hoped  and  prayed  and  trembled,  more, 
For  her,  than  all  the  rest 


So  frail,  alas !  she  could  not  bear 
The  gentle  breath  of  spring, 

That  scarce  the  yellow  butterfly 
Felt  underneath  its  wing. 
4 


50  Hi  i:   ORAVK   IS   BY   HER   MOTHER'S. 


How  hard  we  strove  to  save  her,  love 

Like  ours  alone  can  tell, 
And  only  those  know  what  we  lost, 

Who  've  loved  the  lost,  as  well. 


Some  thirteen  summers  from  her  birth, 
When  th'  reaper  cuts  the  grain, 

We  laid  her  in  the  silent  earth, 
A  flower  without  a  stain. 


We  laid  her  by  her  mother, 

Where  the  strawberries  grow  wild, 
And  there  they  sleep  together,  well, 

The  mother  and  the  child. 


SONG  IN  AUTUMN. 


TAKE  down  the  sickle,  boys  !  hurrah ! 

The  ears  of  ripened  grain 
Are  waiting  for  the  reaper's  hand, 

Upon  the  fruitful  plain ! 
The  mellow  moon,  the  changing  leaves, 

The  earlier  setting  sun, 
Proclaim,  at  last,  my  merry  boys, 

The  harvest-time  begun. 


Thick  on  the  hills,  to-morrow  noon 

The  gathered  stook  must  see, 
And  with  the  loads  of  yellow  corn 

Shall  groan  the  axle-tree ; 
The  frost,  my  boys,  will  soon  be  here ! 

And  winter 's  on  the  way, — 
These  glorious  days  will  never,  boys, 

For  lazy  farmers  stay ! 


52  BONG  IN   AUTUMN. 


Take  down  the  sickle,  boys !  hurrah ! 

While  loads  of  ripened  grain 
Are  waiting  for  the  reaper's  hand, 

Upon  the  fruitful  plain, 
We  '11  gather  up  the  golden  corn, 

In  thankfulness  once  more, 
And  fill  with  the  returning  seed, 

Our  basket  and  our  store. 


PRAYERS  FOR  A  SICK  CHILD. 


SPARE  the  sufferer,  cruel  Pain ! 

Spare  the  child ! 
Let  her  breathe  in  sleep,  again, 

Calm  and  mild. 

All  our  hopes  are  centered  here, 
And  we  pray  with  many  a  tear, 

Spare  the  child ! 


She  hath  never  injured  aught 

*Neath  the  sun ! 
Pure  is  she  as  love's  first  thought — 

Gentle  one ! 

Ah !  we  cannot  bear  the  fear, 
That  her  life  must  vanish  here, 

Just  begun. 


54  PRAYERS  FOR   A  SICK   CHILD. 

Spare  the  sufferer,  cruel  Pain ! 

Spare  the  child ! 
Let  her  breathe  in  sleep,  again, 

Calm  and  mild. 

For  ourselves  we  've  little  fear — 
For  the  suffering  angel  hear ! 

Spare  the  child ! 


ii. 


Aid  the  child  thou  'st  given  ! 

We  can  do  no  more ! 
Vainly  we  have  striven, 

And  our  skill  is  o'er ; 
Ah !  the  moan  it  utters ! 

It  can  take  no  rest, 
And  the  low  breath  flutters, 

Faintly  from  its  breast 


We  have  no  ambition, 

Wer  'e  a  humble  pair, 
Seeking  no  condition 

Save  our  lot  of  care ; 
We  have  murmured,  never, 

Unto  labor  wed, — 
But  with  chaste  endeavor, 

Sought  our  daily  bread. 


PRAYERS   FOR   A   SICK   CHILD.  55 

This  poor  child,  we  cherish, 

That  thy  mercy  gave, 
Father !  shall  it  perish  ? 

It  is  all  we  have ! 
Bid  the  burning  fever, 

The  gentle  sufferer  spare  ! 
A  little  longer  leave  her 

To  our  humble  care  ! 


ISABEL. 


ABB  thy  thoughts  upon  the  sea, 

Isabel? 
Are  thy  thoughts  upon  the  sea, 

Isabel? 

All  day  sitting, 
Thinking,  knitting, 

Scarcely  ever  looking  slily  up  as  formerly  at  me  ; 
Where 's  thy  chatter  ? 
What 's  the  matter, 
Isabel? 


Are  thy  thoughts  upon  the  sea, 

Isabel? 
With  a  lover  on  the  sea, 

Isabel? 

Poor  aunt  Lizzy, 
Was  so  dizzy, 

When  the  symptoms  made  appearance  of  this  maiden 
malady! 

And  the  labors, 
Of  the  neighbors, 
babel! 


ISABEL.  57 


Are  thy  thoughts  upon  the  sea, 

Isabel? 
With  '  that  fellow'  on  the  sea, 

Isabel? 

That  poor  hoddy — 
That  nobody  !— 

Have  you  ever  seen  him  noticed  by  the  first  society  ? 
Mind  thy  mother ! 
Love  another, 
Isabel! 


Are  thy  thoughts  upon  the  sea, 

Isabel? 
Are  they  still  upon  the  sea  ? — 

Isabel ! 

Hear  thy  betters ! 
Burn  his  letters ! 

Let  thy  very  kind  relations  make  a  proper  match  for 
thee; 

Cash  and  station — 
Rich  relation — 
Isabel ! 


58  ISABEL. 


If  thy  heart  is  on  the  sea, 

Isabel, 
And  thy  thoughts  are  on  the  sea, 

It  is  well ! 
Round  thy  lover 
Let  them  hover, 

Though  thy  mother  says  old  Skinflint  has  more  mortgages 
than  he : 

Thy  lip's  honey 
Sold  for  money — 
Isabel!! 


HOW  CALMLY  PASS  HER  QUIET 
DAYS. 


How  calmly  pass  her  quiet  days, 

In  womanly  repose ! 
As,  sometimes,  by  the  dusty  ways, 

A  stream,  half-hidden,  flows 
So  softly,  that  the  traveler's  ear 
Scarce  hears  its  current  bubbling  near. 


Most  beautiful,  yet  never  proud, 

Beloved,  yet  never  vain, 
Though  courteous  to  the  idle  crowd 

That  come  and  go  again, 
Yet  happiest  when  her  time  is  spent 
With  those  she  loves  in  calm  content 


60  HOW  CALMLY    PASS    HBR   QUIKT    DAYS. 


She  knows  but  little  of  the  art, 
By  which  we  learn  the  right, 

Her  knowledge  lieth  in  the  heart, 
In  woman's  keen  insight ; 

And  much  she  teaches  by  her  looks, 

That  we  could  never  find  in  books. 


With  patient  grace  she  moves  along 
Through  all  her  duties,  oft 

Beguiling  them  with  sweetest  song, 
And  chasened  mirth  and  soft  ; 

And  all  the  day  like  some  sweet  bird 

The  music  of  her  voice  is  heard. 


Long  may  she  live !  see  clearer  still, 
With  ever-brightening  eye, 

And  learn,  serenely  to  fulfill 
Her  woman-destiny ; 

And  happier,  purer  grow  each  day 

As  steals  her  quiet  life  away. 


NAY,  MOTHER!  TELL  ME  NOT. 


NAY,  mother !  tell  me  not  that  he 

Is  lost  to  virtue  yet, 
Though  well  I  know  ten  thousand  snares 

His  youthful  feet  beset 
And,  mother !  well  I  know  that  you, 

His  dearest  hopes  have  crossed, 
And  now,  when  he  has  fallen,  cry, 

I  told  you  ! — he  is  lost ! 


I  know  him,  mother,  and  I  know 

How  much  you  hate  that  boy ! 
But  it  shall  prove,  though  you  despise, 

You  never  can  destroy  ! 
He  loves  me,  mother,  and  for  that, 

These  snares  his  feet  beset, 
And,  mother,  though  the  world  combine, 

That  love  shall  save  him,  yet ! 


SHE  PERISHED  ERE  HER  HEART 
HAD  KNOWN. 


SHE  perished  ere  her  heart  had  known 

A  Borrow  or  a  fear, 
Ere  o  'er  her  spirit,  care  had  thrown 

A  shadow — Mary,  dear ! 
And  life  to  her  was  like  a  gleam 
Of  sunshine  on  the  valley  stream. 


She  sleeps  beneath  a  rising  hill, 
That  looks  upon  the  west, 

Dead  to  the  world,  but  living  still 
To  those  who  knew  her  best : 

And  on  her  grave,  with  folded  wings, 

The  sober  blue-bird  site  and  sings. 


SHE  PERISHED  ERE  HER  HEART  HAD  KNOWN.   63 


We  miss  her,  she  was  dear,  we  miss 

Her  laugh  at  eventide, 
Her  fondling  arms,  her  gentle  kiss — 

But  yet,  'tis  well ! — she  died, 
All  pure  and  bright  as  at  her  birth, 
A  gain  to  heaven,  a  loss  to  earth. 


WE  WEEP  IN  VAIN. 


WK  weep  in  vain — the  book  is  shut — 
The  fountain  sealed — and  there ! 

The  one  we  loved  so  much  is  but 
The  dust  of  hopes  that  were ! 

The  eye  is  closed,  the  ear  is  dull, 

Alas !  alas !  so  beautiful ! 


We  weep  in  vain — above  her  head, 

With  all  its  golden  wealth, 
Steeped  in  our  tears  the  pall  is  spread — 

So  young,  so  full  of  health  ! — 
Ah  !  who  that  met  her  yesternoon, 
Ha«l  dreamed  to  see  her  thus,  so  soon  '. 


WE   WEEP   IN  VAIN.  65 


We  weep  in  vain — there !  let  her  sleep 

Beneath  the  maple  tree, 
The  stars  above  her  grave  will  keep 

Their  vigils ; — sadly  we 
Return  to  life,  with  many  a  tear, 
And  one  tie  less  to  bind  us  here. 

5 


THE  KIDD-MAN. 


Tell  thee  a  story!  Alice,  dear,\ 

I'm  afraid  you  have  asked  in  vain!  I 
Since  thy  mother  died,  in  thy  second  year, 
I've  forgotten  all  that  I  knew,  I  fear ; 
And  the  stones  I  told  when  she  used  to  hear, 

I  can  never  repeat  again. 


But  yet,  perhaps,  as  it  is  not  late — 

And  here  by  my  watch  I  see, 
The  hands  point  six  on  tie  dial-plate — 
/ '//  try  if  before  they  are  round  to  eight, 
My  fancy  fail  of  her  wonted  gait, 
And  thin  shall  the  story  be. 


THE   KIDD-MAN.  67 


AN  old  man  lives,  as  the  story  goes, 

In  a  hut,  far  out  of  the  town, 
Where,  under  the  hill,  the  hemlock  grows, 
Shading  till  June  the  winter  snows, 
And  a  bubbling  spring  forever  flows 

From  the  heart  of  the  mountain  brown. 


The  queerest  man  that  was  ever  on  earth, 
And  a  very  queer  man  is  he, 

Nobody  knows  who  gave  him  birth ; 

He  never  sits  down  by  any  man's  hearth, 

And  he  seems  to  think  of  very  small  worth, 
What  was,  or  what  is  to  be. 


n. 

And  how  does  he  look  ?  why,  Alice,  his  skin 

Is  withered,  and  brown  as  tea, 
And  the  wrinkles  so  thick,  that  the  point  of  a  pin 
Anywhere  on  his  face,  a  wrinkle  were  in  ! — 
Stooping  and  short,  meagre  and  thin, 

And  hands  that  reach  to  his  knee. 


68  THE   KIDIMBAN. 


In  Ills  eyes  there  shines,  'tis  plain  to  me, 

A  disordered  and  feverish  will ; 
As  for  in  his  head  as  they  well  can  be, 
They  're  as  blue  as  you  ever  saw  blue-berry, 
But  dreamy  and  deep,  as  though  infancy 
Were  wondering  through  them  still. 


His  hair  is  white  as  the  falling  snow, 

But  silky  and  soft  as  a  girl's, 
And  falling  far  down,  his  shoulders  below, 
Like  a  patriarch's  seen  in  a  picture  you  know — 
Streams  round  his  neck  in  the  winds  as  they  blow, 

In  a  thousand  beautiful  curls. 


But  his  beard  is  short  and  blacker  than  jet, 
And  it  never  was  shaved,  they  say, 

And  his  teeth,  through  his  lips,  you  can  see,  are  set 

Closely  together,  as  though  they  met, 

To  crush  the  reinbrance,  lingering  yet, 
Of  things  that  have  long  passed  away 


THE   KIDD-MAN.  69 


III. 

Through  summer  and  spring  when  the  skies  are  fair, 

From  his  hut  he  scarce  ever  goes  out, 
But  sits  at  his  hearth,  with  his  dog  by  his  chair, 
And  the  smoke  of  his  pipe  wreathes  round  in  his  hair, 
As  he  crosses  his  legs  with  a  thinking  air, 
Or  wanders  the  floor  about 


IV. 

But  they  say,  when  the  sky  with  a  tempest  scowls, 

And  the  lightning  flares  and  gleams, 
When  the  raving  wind  through  the  cavern  prowls, 
And  over  the  peaks  of  the  mountain  howls, 
And  with  long  and  low  intonations,  growls 
The  distant  thunder,  he  seems 


Like  a  man  at  the  top  of  his  element, 
In  the  midst  of  the  deafening  roar — 

Shouts  as  the  hemlock  trees  are  bent ! 

And  the  oak  by  the  bolt  is  torn  and  rent ! 

And  laughs  as  the  riven  leaves  are  sent 
Like  feathers  about  his  door ! 


70  THE   KIDD-MAN. 


And  they  say,  he  '11  stand  and  turn  his  ear, 

And  the  peals  count,  one  by  one, 
As  the  cloud  sweeps  onward,  black  and  near, 
And  the  bolts  fall  fast,  distinct  and  clear, 
As  though  each  clap  that  he  turns  to  hear 
Were  the  burst  of  a  battle  gun. 


There  is  something,  'twould  seem,  in  summer  bright, 

That  he  always  has  sought  to  shun, 
And  'tis  said  that  he  utterly  hates  the  light, 
That  the  leaves  and  the  flowers  annoy  his  sight, 
That  he  only  can  bear  the  half-day-night 
Of  the  gloomiest  winter  sun. 


VI. 

But  aa  soon  as  the  (lays  grow  short  and  dim, 

And  the  mountain  is  covered  with  snow — 
When  the  trees  look  ghastly,  bare  and  grim, 
And  the  sleet  clings  closely  to  trunk  and  limb, 
And  the  rivers  are'rrozen  from  brim  to  brim, 
And  the  sun  to  the  south  runs  low — 


THE   KIDD-MAN.  71 


Then  the  old  fellow 's  out !  and  you  never  will  find 

Another  so  strange  and  queer ; — 
His  cap  is  of  coon,  with  the  red-fox  lined, 
Like  a  bee-hive,  shaped,  with  the  tail  behind, 
That  flaps  o  'er  his  back  in  the  saucy  wind, 

As  would  make  you  laugh  for  a  year. 


VII. 

His  horse  is  a  poor  and  a  sorry  old  lout, 

And  a  sorry  old  lout  is  he, 
His  head  hangs  down  and  his  bones  stick  oat, 
And  he  scarcely  can  turn  the  old  pung  about, 
And  he  cares  not  a  pin  for  the  street-boy's  shoot, 

Or  his  master's  gee-up !  gee ! 


The  harness  is  shabby  and  old,  alack ! 

A  rope  and  a  strap  and  a  thong ! — 
There 's  a  cord  for  the  reins,  and  a  piece  of  sack 
Doubled  up  for  a  pad,  on  the  old  horse's  back, 
While  the  trace-chains  jingle  a-whick-a-ty-whack  ! 

Round  the  thills  as  he  shuffles  along. 


72  THE   KIDD-MAN. 


O  'er  his  shoulder  he  holds,  of  the  blue-beech,  green, 

A  long,  sturdy  twig,  for  a  whip, 
And  as  forward  a  little  you  see  him  lean, 
He  uses  it  often  and  well,  I  ween, 
For  thick  and  large  and  plain  to  be  seen 

Are  its  marks  on  the  old  horse's  hip. 


VIII. 

Behind  him  follows,  led  by  a  twine, 

His  beautiful  dog,  Bessie, 
Her  hair  is  curly  and  black  and  fine, 
And  parts  along  on  her  back  in  a  line, 
And  glossy  and  bright,  when  the  sun  doth  shine, 

As  a  fully-ripe  blackberry. 


IX. 

So  he  rides  along  from  street  to 

Turning  that  way  and  tli 
He  minds  not  a  soul  he  may  chance  to  OM6( 
He  never  looks  up  from  his  horse's  feet, 
And  cares  not  a  straw  for  the  hail  and  sleet 

That  beats  in  his  face,  I  wis. 


THE    KIDD-MAN.  73 


And  though  the  wind 's  up  and  the  snow  is  whirled, 

So  that  nobody  else  can  see, 

You  'd  think,  as  his  whip  round  his  head  is  twirled, 
And  the  puffs  of  smoke  from  his  stub  pipe  curled 
Through  his  jetty  black  beard,  that  he  owned  the 
new  world, 

And  a  part  of  the  old  country ! 


x. 

Most  terrible  tales  are  about  him  told, 

And  I  've  heard  our  grand-mother  say, 

She  'd  no  doubt,  in  his  hut,  he  had  chests  full  of  gold, 

For  which  to  old  Nick  his  soul  he  had  sold ; 

That  he  always  had  been  just  about  so  old, 
Since  he  first  came  along  this  way. 


XL 

'Tis  sure,  no  doubt,  th'  old  fellow  must  be 

As  old  as  the  oldest  crow, 
But  whether  he 's  sold  to  the  devil,  is  he, 
Or  whether  he 's  murdered  folks  on  the  sea, 
Or  whether  he 's  wicked  or  very  godly, 

Nobody  pretends  to  know. 


74  THE 


XII. 

Bat  you  know  there  was  once  a  Captain  Kidd, 
Tou  have  heard,  I  'm  sure,  of  him ! 

The  man  of  the  song,  who  '  so  wickedly  did,' 

Who  all  in  the  sand,  the  Bible  hid ! 

And  the  laws  of  God  to  his  crew  forbid — 
A  Pirate,  blood  v  and  grim  ! 


And  this  crazy  and  foolish  old  man,  you  see, 

So  close  in  his  hut  keeps  hid, 
That  the  gossips  insist  there  is  some  mystery 
About  him,  and  sagely  declare  it  must  be, 
So  strange  are  his  ways  and  his  doings,  that  he 

Is  some  such  a  fellow  as  Kidd ! 


XIII. 

And  so  'tis  now,  wherever  he  goes, 

Sorry  to  say,  am  I ! 

Every  child  in  the  street  the  old  man  knows, 
And  whether  it  shines  or  whether  it  snows, 
Whether  it  rains  or  whether  it  blows, 

"  THE  KIM.-.M  \\  !  "  is  the  cry. 


AS  SUMMER  FADES  AWAY. 


AH,  me !  the  sky  is  dark  and  cold, 

The  leaves  are  dead  and  gray, 
And  everything  seems  growing  old 

As  summer  fades  away ; 
The  clouds  along  the  valley  drift, 

Or  round  the  mountain  run, 
Too  heavy  with  the  rain  to  lift 

Their  bosoms  to  the  sun. 


I  hear  upon  the  frozen  grass, 

The  cold  and  dripping  rain, 
And  mark  the  shadows  as  they  pass 

Along  the  cheerless  plain ; 
See  one  by  one  the  flowers,  across, 

The  dreary  fields,  depart, 
And  of  old  age,  the  sullen  moss, 

Feel  growing  o  'er  my  heart ! 


76  AS   9UMMEU    FADES   AWAY. 


Ah,  me !  the  sky  is  dork  and  cold, 

And  sharp  and  keen  the  storm, 
That  cuts,  as  though  my  blood  were  old, 

My  pinched  and  shivering  form ; 
The  vigor  from  my  blood  has  fled, 

My  brain  seems  in  decay, 
And  everything  looks  dark  and  dead, 

As  summer  fades  away. 


THE  DEFORMED. 


SHE  was  not  beautiful,  poor  girl ! 

Her  figure  or  her  face 
Had  none  of  all  the  charms  that  give 

To  maidenhood  its  grace ; 
One  of  those  beings,  upon  whom, 

All  sorrows  seem  to  fall ; 
Deformed  and  homely,  poor  and  sad, 

And  mind  to  feel  it  all ! 


They  shunned  her  at  our  village  sports, 

And  when  the  gay  and  fair 
Were  gathered  at  the  festival, 

I  never  found  her  there  ; 
They  knew  the  poor  and  homely  girl 

Had  little  art  to  speak, 
Where  fashion's  bold  and  glaring  lights 

Were  blazing  on  her  cheek. 


78  THE   DEFORMED. 


And  yet,  she  never  sought  a  smile 

To  cheer  her  lonely  heart, 
But  by  herself,  with  shrinking  steps, 

She  struggled  on,  apart ; 
Her  slighted  spirit  could  not  brook 

The  haughty  eye  of  pride, 
And  with  her  mother  and  her  flowers, 

She  lived,  and  wept,  and  died. 


They  never  missed  her,  when  at  last 

The  few  that  knew  her  well, 
Laid  down  the  weary  girl  to  rest, 

And  scarcely  one  can  tell 
Where  blooms  the  clover  white  and  red, 

That  nature  kindly  rears, 
To  guard  the  slumbers  of  the  chili  1 

Of  poverty  and  tears. 


I   SEE   HER  NOT! 


I  SEE  her  not !  the  spring  is  here 

With  gladness  for  the  budding  earth, 
I  see  her  not !  the  one  so  dear, 

Nor  at  the  board,  nor  at  the  hearth ; 
The  dust  is  on  her  window-sill, 

Her  bird  is  dumb,  her  flowers  are  dead, 
And  in  the  fastened  shutter,  still 

The  spider  weaves  her  gloomy  thread. 


Here,  in  her  silent  chamber,  where 

The  solitary  shadows  dwell, 
I  watched  with  sweet  and  patient  care, 

The  sister  I  had  loved  so  well ; 
And  when  a  day  of  sharper  pain 

Had  left  her  hopeless,  pale  and  weak, 
I  sought  to  cheer  her  heart  again,  N 

And  kiss  the  color  to  her  cheek. 


80  I   SEE   HER  NOT! 

Here,  through  the  long,  long  winter  night 

She  wore  the  weary  hours  away, 
Until  at  last  the  morning  light 

Came  through  her  window  cold  and  gray ; 
Ah !  how  the  dull  beam  on  the  glass, 

To  her,  would  the  sweet  hope  restore, 
That  she,  the  leaves  and  growing  grass, 

Should  live  to  look  upon,  once  more. 


I  could  not  tell  her,  what,  to  learn, 

Would  only  needless  anguish  give, 
That  spring  to  her  would  ne  'er  return — 

For  on  that  hoj»c  she  seemed  to  live ; 
She  could  not,  so  she  'd  come  to  think, 

She  could  not  sleep  beneath  the  snow- 
Yet,  as  each  day  I  saw  her  sink, 

I  knew,  too  well,  it  must  be  so. 


And  so  it  was :  but  yet,  her  breath, 
So  quietly,  one  morn,  was  stilled, 

While  yet  that  hope  was  strong,  that  death, 
To  her,  was  but  that  hope  fulfilled ; 

For,  hours  before  her  spirit  passed, 

Sweet  names  of  flowers  her  lips  would  spell, 

And  murmuring,  faintly,  "spring  at  lost!" 
her  face  the  shadow  H  II. 


I   SEE   HER  NOT!  81 

I  see  her  not !  the  spring  is  here ! 

And  gladness  reigns  through  all  the  earth, 
I  see  her  not !  the  one  so  dear, 

Nor  at  the  board,  nor  at  the  hearth ; 
The  dust  is  on  her  window-sill, 

Her  bird  is  dumb,  her  flowers  are  dead, 
And  in  the  fastened  shutter,  still 

The  spider  weaves  her  gloomy  thread. 
6 


OLD  MARGARET. 


There  is  a  poor  old  woman 

Lives  down  below  the  mill, 

Just  where  the  turnpike-road  begins 
To  struggle  up  the  hill. 


11. 


Below  the  mill  th'  old  woman  lives, 
Below  the  mill,  alone ; 

A  very  strange  old  woman, 
The  strangest  ever  known 


OLD   MARGARET.  83 


III. 


Her  hut  was  built  of  logs,  ago, 
Some  fifty  years,  they  say, 

And  now,  since  the  new  road  is  built, 
'Tis  almost  in  the  way ; 


IV. 


So  when  you  rattle  down  the  hill, 
If  you  're  in  reckless  mood, 

Be  careful,  or  your  wheel-hub  hits 
Th'  old  woman's  pile  of  wood ; 


v. 


A  scanty  pile  of  mouldy  bark, 

And  strips  of  boards,  and  sticks, 

That  from  the  river  margin 
In  heavy  rains  she  picks, 


This  poor  and  strange  old  woman, 
That  lives  below  the  mill, 

Just  where  the  turnpike-road  begins 
To  strnrjfjle  up  tin1  "hill. 


84  OLD   MARGARET. 


VI. 

A  little  brook,  that  'cross  the  road, 

Creeps  through  the  gray  stone  wall. 

And  to  the  river,  just  below, 
Glides  with  an  easy  fall. 


VII. 

With  purest  water  through  the  year, 
And  never  known  to  fail, 

Fills,  from  a  rude  and  mossy  spout, 
Old  Margaret's  water  pail. 


vin. 

Beside  the  road,  sometimes,  for  hours, 

In  summer,  she  will  stand, 
Her  gray  locks  straggling  round  her  neck, 

A  willow  in  her  hand, 


IX. 

And  scold  and  blame  the  brook  because 

So  fast  it  seems  to  flow, 
And  then,  with  sharp  and  angry  words. 

And  quick  and  fretful  blow, 


OLD    MARGARET.  85 


X. 

She  stoops  and  strikes  her  stick  across 

Its  face,  with  flashing  eyes, 
And  faster!  stamping  fiercely, 

Faster !  faster  !  cries 

This  poor  and  strange  old  woman, 
That  lives  below  the  mill, 

Just  where  the  turnpike-road  begins 
To  struggle  vp  the  hilL 


XI. 

Within  her  hut,  so  poor  and  old, 
So  desolate  and  mean, 

Besides  herself,  no  living  thing, 
They  say,  was  ever  seen ; 


Except,  that  in  a  golden  vase, 

Carved  by  the  subtlest  art 
To  represent  a  maiden's  hand, 
•  Clasped  round  a  broken  heart, 


86  OLD   MARGARET. 


XIII. 


A  wonderfully  fragrant  flower 

Is  seen  upon  the  floor, 
Where  warm  and  bright  the  sun,  at  noon, 

Streams  through  the  open  door. 


XIV. 


And  this  sweet  flower  she  seems  to  nurse 

With  never-ending  care, 
And  in  its  season,  from  her  vase, 

Finds  little  time  to  spare. 


xv. 


Whence  came  the  flower,  or  what  its  name, 

Twere  idle  if  we  sought, 
Or  whence  her  golden  vase,  by  such 

Exquisite  labor  wrought 


XVI. 


Some  think  it  is  no  earthly  plant, 
For  never  yet,  they  say, 

Of  earthly  birth  was  seen  a  flower 
With  leaves  so  fair  and  gay ; 


OLD   MARGARET.  87 


XVII. 


And  never  flower  was  known  to  grow 

By  natural  agencies, 
Within  whose  heart  'twere  possible 

Such  wondrous  odor  lies. 


xvin. 


And  those  who  've  seen,  by  rarest  chance, 

The  vase  upon  the  floor, 
When  warm  and  bright  the  sun,  at  noon, 

Streamed  through  the  open  door ; 


XIX. 


Declare,  the  slender  fingers  clasp 
Around  the  graven  heart, 

So  human-like,  they  cannot  be 
The  work  of  mortal  art. 


xx. 


But,  whence  the  flower  or  what  its  name, 
The  foolish  ones  who  seek, 

For  answer  have  the  angry  flush 
Upon  old  Margaret's  cheek. 


OLD    MAKGAKKT. 


XXI. 


"Pis  certain  that  the  flower  must  link 
Her  warped  and  wandering  brain, 

To  something  that  is  past  and  gone, 
By  a  mysterious  chain. 


XXII. 

And  it  is  well,  if  c  'en  in  that, 

She  find  a  fancied  bliss, 
For  little  of  the  world  there  seem* 

To  her,  poor  soul !  but  this ; 

The  poor  and  strange  old  tcow?an, 
That  lives  below  the  mill, 

Just  wliere  Hie  turnpike-road  begins 
To  struggle  up  the  hill. 


XXIII. 

She  catches,  through  the  winter  months, 

The  snow-flakes  as  they  fall, 
And  melts  them  with  her  breath ;  when  spring, 

The  chattering  martins  call, 


OLD    MARGARET.  89 


And  in  the  summer,  from  the  grass, 

Before  the  sun  is  hot, 
Brushes  the  dew-drops  in  her  hand, 

And  feeds  her  golden  pot : 


XXV. 


While  every  month,  nursed  by  her  care, 
The  snow-flakes  and  the  dews, 

Her  plant,  within  the  broken  heart, 
A  single  flower  renews. 


XXVI. 


And  when  her  flower  has  blown,  a  change 
Comes  o  'er  her,  and  she  seems 

Like  one  who  suddenly  awakes 

From  wild  and  troubled  dreams. 


The  lines  about  her  mouth  are  gone, 

And  on  her  pallid  face, 
All  hushed  and  calm,  you  something  of 

Its  former  beauty,  trace. 


90  OLD   MAKGARET. 


She  wraps  about  her  shrunken  form 
A  robe  of  snowy  white, 

And  decks  herself  with  ornaments, 
And  colors  pure  and  bright 


The  fierceness  leaves  her  eye,  her  brain 
Grows  clearer,  her  gray  hair 

Is  neatly  braided,  and  her  dress 
Arranged  with  bridal  care, 


XXX. 

As  by  her  golden  vase  she  site, 
Her  heart  subdued  and  mild, 

And  smiles  and  hums  old,  simple  tunes, 
And  calls  the  flower  her  child. 


XXXI. 

And  while  its  fragrance  feeds  her  heart, 
She  never  leaves  her  hut, 

Her  brook  creeps  on  its  way  alone, 
Her  door  is  always  shut, 


OLD   MARGARET.  91 


XXXII. 


And  nothing  then,  is  seen  from  which 
A  passer-by  would  know, 

That  human  soul  lived  there,  except 
Her  pathway  through  the  snow, 


XXXIII. 


In  winter,  to  her  little  brook, 
And  in  the  summer  day, 

That  round  her  door  a  restless  foot 
Had  worn  the  grass  away. 


So  still,  that  you  can  almost  hear 
The  snow-flake's  fluttering  wing, 

Or  in  her  cell,  the  yellow  wasp, 
Upon  the  rafter  sing. 


XXXV. 

One  day  her  flower  doth  live ;  and  when 

Its  life,  at  night,  is  done, 
She  sobs  and  weeps  aloud,  and  as 

The  leaves  fall,  one  by  one, 


92  OLD    MARGARET. 


XXXVI. 

She  buries  them  beside  the  root, 
Last  leaf  with  the  last  tear! 

And  waits  with  patience  till,  again, 
Her  lost  child  re-appear. 


XXXTU. 

The  soft,  sweet  earth,  made  by  the  leaves, 

As  they,  each  month,  decay, 
About  the  roots  of  her  dear  plant, 

Is  all  she  '11  ever  lay, 

This  poor  and  strange  old  woman, 
That  lives  below  the  mill, 

Just  where  the  turnpike-road  begins 
To  struggle  up  the  hill. 


xxxvin. 

And  nursed  by  this,  it  still  lives  on, 
And  fades  and  blooms  again, 

The  only  thinjr  that  can  control 

Old  Margaret's  wandering  brain. 


OLD    MARGARET. 


XXXIX. 


Alas !  it  is  a  mournful  thing 

A  darkened  intellect ! 
A  brain  so  warped  and  shattered,  that 

It  only  can  reflect 


XL. 


Disjointed  fragments  of  the  light ; 

Whose  household  gods  are  things, 
Of  fitful  fancies,  vain  designs, 

And  false  imaginings ; 


XLI. 


To  which  all  purpose,  object,  thought, 

The  images  it  sees, 
Are  the  disordered  impulses, 

The  forgeries  of  Disease. 


XLII. 


A  fearful  thing  to  see  the  Mind, 

In  its  full  strength  beset 
With  swarming  shadows,  dismal  shapes, 

And  a  base  counterfeit 


94  OLD   MARGARET. 


XLII1. 

Of  Reason  all  o  'ennastering 

Its  mighty  energies, 
While  stricken  by  its  nnseen  foes 

The  blinded  giant  lies. 


There 's  no  one  in  the  village  knows 
From  whence  old  Margaret  came, 

She  never  told  her  history, 
Her  lineage  or  name. 


They  called  her  Margaret,  but  why, 
If  any  knew,  they  've  passed  ; 

And  so,  from  this,  she  came  to  be 
Old  Margaret,  at  last 


Some  twenty  years,  last  spring,  they  say, 

She  came  into  the  place, 
And  through  the  summer  season  lived. 

By  charity's  sweet  grace. 


OLD   MARGARET.  95 


XLVII 


But  when  the  winds  blew  sharp  and  chill, 
And  th'  leaves  looked  sere  and  old, 

And  charity's  lean  hand,  became 
Few-cented,  and  grew  cold, 


XLVIH. 


She  found  the  hut,  below  the  mill, 
Half  fallen  from  the  roof, 

Beyond  the  village  and  the  noise, 
And  from  the  crowd  aloof. 


She  patched  it  up  with  moss  and  slabs 

To  keep  the  rain  away, 
And  there,  alone,  as  I  have  sung 

Has  lived  unto  this  day, 

This  poor  and  strange  old  woman, 
In  the  hut  below  the  mill, 

Just  where  the  turnpike-road  begins 
To  struggle  up  the  hill. 


LOOKING  IN  THE  RIVER 


Looking  in  the  river, 

Smiling  to  herself, 
Sits  a  little  maiden, 

On  a  mossy  shelf; 
Looking  in  the  river, 

What 's  the  maiden  see  ? 
Than  herself,  I  'm  certain, 

Something  it  must  be ! 


Looking  in  the  river, 

Where  the  softened  sun, 
Than  the  orb  above  her 

Seems  another  one ; 
Looking  in  the  river, 

There  the  maiden  sees, 
Something  than  the  heaven*, 

Or  the  mirrored  trees ! 


LOOKING   IN   THE   RIVER.  97 

Looking  in  the  river, 

With  a  dreamy  stare, 
Wonder  what  the  maiden 

Can  be  seeing  there  ? 
Looking  in  the  river, 

What  if  /  should  be, 
Then,  I  may  be  certain, 

What  the  girl  can  see. 


Looking  in  the  river — 

Now,  ah,  ha !  I  know 
What  the  little  maiden 

Gazes  at  below ! 
Looking  in  the  river, 

Now  I  understand, 
Why  the  little  maiden 

Sits  upon  the  land ! 


Looking  in  the  river, 

As  the  water  stirs, 
There  I  see  another 

Face  beside  of  hers ! 
There  I  see  another 

Face  in  shadow  thrown, 
In  the  silent  river, 

Close  beside  her  own  ! 


LOOKING    IN    THK    RIVH: 

Looking  in  the  river 

With  her  other  self, 
Sits  the  little  maiden 

On  a  rocky  shelf, 
Looking  in  the  river 

Maiden  never  run ! 
That 's  a  thing  I  'm  certain, 

All  of  us  have  done — 


Looking  in  the  river — 

Whether  right  or  wrong ; 
And  there  is  a  season 

— We  remember  long, 
Looking  in  the  river — 

All  of  us  have  known, 
When  we  've  seen  another 

Face  beside  our  own ! 


NOVEMBER. 


THE  days  we  've  so  long  dreaded, 

The  days  of  frost  and  snow, 
Of  winds  that  sweep  the  frozen  street, 

And  whistle  as  they  go — 
The  days  of  fickle  temperament, 

A  smile  and  then  a  blow ! 
Of  mud  and  mire  and  dirtiness, 

Again,  are  '  here  below ! ' 


We  sit  and  sneeze  and  cough  in  rooms 

Insufferably  hot, 
And  tumble  over  old  accounts 

Were  never  worth  a  groat ! 
And  looking  from  the  window, 

Into  our  neighbor's  lot, 
We  really  argue  if  'twere  best 

To  steal  his  sheep  or  not ! 


100  NOVEMBER. 

The  vines,  frost-bitten,  from  the  eaves 

Hang  blackening  in  the  rain, 
And  trickling  drops,  like  silent  tears, 

All  day  the  windows  stain ; 
The  leaves  are  gone,  the  dead  weed-stalks 

Grow  black  upon  the  plain, 
And  herds  are  lowing  in  the  fields 

Where  stood  the  gathered  grain. 


All  day  you  hear  the  noisy  crow 

Upon  the  hemlock  high — 
In  flocks,  about  the  mountain  ash, 

The  chirping  robins  fly ; 
The  rustling  leaves  and  yellow,  drive 

In  mimic  whirlwinds  by, 
Or  on  the  wet  and  muddy  walks, 

In  heaps,  together  lie. 


The  dripping  of  the  rain  is  heard 

Upon  the  roof  all  night, 
And  dark  and  heavy  clouds  obscure 

The  early  morning's  light ; 
We  gape  and  stretch  and  feel  aa  dull 

As  our  grandmother's  sight, 
•  SOUK:  '  older  than  Methuselah, 

And  cross  enough  to  bite  ' 


NOVEMBER.  101 

That  summer 's  gone,  and  gone  for  good, 

'Tis  useless  to  protest, 
When  all  the  hills  that  you  can  see 

In  snowy  caps  are  dressed ; 
When  fogs  upon  the  valley 

From  morn  till  evening  rest, 
And  in  his  journey  scarce  the  sun 

Is  seen  from  east  to  west. 


Alas !  these  days  of  dumps  and  of 

Interminable  rains, 
Of  overcoats  and  overshoes, 

And  'pothecary  grains — 
Of  drops  for  coughs,  and  slops  for  colds, 

From  catnip  tea  to  Swayne's, 
Make  the  effort  to  survive  appear 

A  questionable  pains ! 


SONG. 


BRING  me  a  cup— a  brimming  cup ! 

A  cup  of  the  rosy  red  wine, 
For  soon  as  the  blossoms  of  summer  shall  bud, 
Sweet  Alice  has  sworn  to  be  mine. 

Joy  !  joy  ! 
Sweet  Alice  has  sworn  to  be  mine  ! 

Drink,  boy  ! 
But  Alice  will  never  be  thine  I 

For  women  are  false  and  fickle  as  air, 

And  faithless,  as  faithless  can  be, 
And  their  love  is  as  changeable  as  the  moonshine, 

As  the  winds  or  the  waves  of  the  sea. 


SONG.  103 

II. 

Bring  me  a  cup — a  brimming  cup ! 

A  cup  of  the  rosy  red  wine, 
For  women  are  true  as  the  sun  in  the  .sky, 
And  Alice  has  sworn  to  be  mine ! 

Joy  !  joy  ! 
And  Alice  has  sworn  to  be  mine  ! 

Drink,  boy  I 
But  Alice  will  never  be  thine  ! 

A  gallant  I  saw  at  her  feet,  but  now, 

I  swear  by  this  full  cup  of  wine ! 
And  he  said,  as  he  pressed  her  soft  lip  to  his  own, 

Sweet  Alice  has  sworn  to  be  mine ! 


in. 

Bring  me  a  cup — a  brimming  cup  1 

A  cup  of  the  rosy  red  wine, 
For  women  are  true  and  thou  liest  I  know, 
For  Alice  has  sworn  to  be  mine  ! 

Joy!  joy! 
For  Alice  has  sworn  to  be  mine  ! 

Drink,  boy  ! 
But  Alice  will  never  be  thine  ! 

And  since,  foolish  boy,  thou  wilt  not  believe, 

Nay,  drain  off  that  cup  of  red  wine  ! 
Then  say  who  that  bride  is,  that  comes  from  the  church  ! 

Is  it  Alice  who  swore  to  be  thine  ? 


104  SONG. 

IV. 

Bring  me  a  cup — a  brimming  cup ! 

A  cup  of  the  rosy  red  wine, 
The  blossoms  of  summer  will  bud,  ala<* ! 

But  Alice  will  never  be  mine — 
For  women  are  false  and  fickle  as  air, 

And  faithless,  as  faithless  can  be, 
And  their  love  is  as  changeable  as  the  moonshine. 
As  the  winds  or  the  waves  of  the  sea ! 


HELEN. 


SPLENDOR  on  her  brow — 

Meekness  in  her  eye — 
Whiter  than  the  snow, 

Bluer  than  the  sky ! 

Everything  hath  she, 
That  nature  or  that  art, 

Dcemeth  womanly, 
Save  an  honest  heart ! 


106  HELEN. 


On  her  cheek  the  rose 

Bloomcth  in  its  pride, 
And  the  lily  knows 

Where  its  rivals  hide ; 
And  the  amorous  South 

Coming  from  the  sea, 
Knoweth  not  her  mouth 

From  the  clover  lea ; 

Everything  hath  she, 
That  nature  or  that  art 

Deemeth  womanly, 
Save  an  honest  heart ! 


Falling  round  her  throat, 

Marble  white  and  bare, 
In  the  soft  winds  float 

Curls  of  sunny  hair ; 
And  her  voice  is  clear, 

Like  a  birds,  and  fills 
Heart  and  soul  and  ear 

With  delicious  thrills ; 

Everything  hath  she, 
That  nature  or  that  art 

Deemeth  womanly, 
Save  an  honest  heart ! 


HELEN.  107 


Moveth  she  along, 

In  her  maiden  prime, 
Like  a  brilliant  song, 

With  a  perfect  rhyme ; 
Admiration  bends 

To  her  beauty,  low, 
There  the  homage  ends — 

For  alas !  all  know 

Everything  hath  she, 
That  nature  or  that  art 

Deemetft  womanly, 
Save  an  honest  heart ! 


JOHN  SMITH. 


Misa  Ellen  was  a  pretty  girl, 

As  every  body  knew, 
She  wore  a  satin-beaver  hat, 

A  very  little  shoe. 
Her  lips  were  like  the  berry  of— 

You  've  seen  the  mountain  ash  ? 
Her  figure  like  the  cedar:  she'd 

Considerable  cash. 


She  'd  worshippers  from  far  and  near, 

Some  fifty  in  them  all, 
And  partners  by  the  million  at 

The  last  Thanksgiving  ball ; 
And  many  a  fop  looked  mellow  things, 

And  many  a  dandy  sad, 
While  fortune  hunters,  as  they  snapped 

Their  fingers,  cried,  "  egad ! " 


JOHN   SMITH.  109 


O !  many  an  offer  Ellen  had, 

And  many  a  vow  had  she, 
And  soon  became  so  sorely  pressed, 

'Twas  very  sad  to  see ; 
But  all  her  offers,  somehow,  'twas, 

She  did  n't  like  them  much — 
She  looked  upon  love's  agony 

As  'twere  the  blankest  Dutch. 


They  thronged  her  parties,  ate  her  cake, 

And  drank  her  father's  wine ; 
They  talked  of  broken  hearts  and  sighed- 

To  her  'twas  all  moonshine. 
She  never  seemed  to  care  a  straw 

About  their  sighs  and  tears, 
That  they  were  getting  into  debt, 

And  she  somewhat  in  years. 


One  April  day  there  came  to  town 

— It  was  the  twenty-fourth — 
A  Southerner,  who  seemed  to  be 

On  business  at  the  North. 
He  purposed,  so  'twas  said,  to  stop 

Until  the  last  of  May ; 
But  June  came  round  and  his  affairs 

Required  still  further  stay. 


110  JOHN   SMITH. 


'Twas  rather  strange,  the  people  thought — 

What  could  his  business  be  ? 
But  soon  conjecture  ended  with — 

'  He 's  rich  and  twenty-three ! ' 
He  saw  Miss  Ellen,  it  was  true, 

Danced  with  her  at  a  ball, 
And  said,  some  pretty  things,  of  course, 

But  this,  it  seemed,  was  all. 


And  so  affairs  went  on,  and  he 

Was  welcomed  everywhere — 
The  older  ladies  liked  his  cash, 

The  younger,  liked  his  hair! 
At  last  a  story  got  afloat, 

And  like  a  wild-fire  flew, 
That  Polly  Peep  knew — certainly ! 

Exactly  what  she  knew ! 


Ah !  there  was  strange  commotion,  then, 

Among  fair  Ellen's  beaux ! 
And  there  was  one,  his  name  was  Smith, 

John  Smith,  you  may  suppose, 
Who  talked  particularly  large 

Beneath  his  little  hat, 
And  swore  upon  his  honor  hr 
put  a  stop  to  that! 


JOHN    SMITH.  Ill 


He  said  he  'd  been  to  New-Orleans, 

And  owned  a  Spanish  dirk, 
Had  fought  ten  duels,  winged  at  times, 

Three  Russians  and  a  Turk ; 
He  hinted  to  the  stranger  that 

The  world  was  rather  round ! 
And  asked  him  if  he  'd  ever  seen 

The  general  burying  ground ! 


But  time  and  tide  for  no  man  wait, 

Our  old  grandmothers  say, 
And  both  about  this  time  went  on 

Their  old  accustomed  way. 
September  came  and  went,  and  still 

The  stranger  was  in  town, 
And  it  was  thought  when  Smith  looked  up 

He  looked  a  little  down. 


One  Sabba'  day  just  after  "  Old 

Mortality  "  was  sung, 
While  yet  upon  the  parson's  lips 

The  benediction  hung, 
Lo !  suddenly  the  old  Town  Clerk, 

That  venerable  man ! 
Ahem'd  three  times,  and  then,  at  length, 

With  lifted  voice  began : 


11-2  JOHN   SMITH. 


"  I  take  this  opportunity, 

To  publish  in  this  place, 
That  marriage  is  intended,  'tween, 

By  God's  permitting  grace, 
John  Hamilton  McNeal,  Esquire, 

Of  Western  Tennessee, 
And  " — silence  hushed  its  breath  to  hear — 

"  And  Ellen  Van  Duzee !" 


Then  came  there  scowl  and  smothered  curse, 

Hints  of  percussion  locks — 
As  Smith  rose  up,  and — shut  the  lid 

Of  his  tobacco  box ! 
At  first,  to  heal  his  sorrows,  he  'd 

Attach  her  lather's  lands ! 
And  then,  he  winked  and  felt  relieved, 

To  have  her  off  his  hands ! 


At  last  he  thought  that,  after  all, 

'Twas  not  so  great  a  catch, 
And  rather  pitied  him  because 

I  If  M  made  so  bad  a  match ! 
He  knew  some  tilings,  he  thought  he  did ! — 

Could  make  disclosures  which — 
Old  Van  Du/.ce — notes — borrowed  cash — 

Not  <-v*-rla.<ting  rich ! 


JOHN   SMITH.  113 


The  wedding  came,  and  Ellen's  beaux 

Were  welcomed  to  the  scene, 
And  most  of  them  got  dreadful  blue 

Because  they  'd  been  so  green  ! 
Next  morning  Ellen  started  off, 

To  Nashville  on  her  way, 
And  left  John  Smith  to  think  of  things 

He 's  thinking  of  this  day. 


K  N  1  T  T  [KG 


SHE  sits  by  the  window,  kuittin- 

Her  fingers  small  and  white, 
Ply  the  shining  needles,  busily, 

From  early  morn  till  night ; 

From  early  morn  till  night 

Her  fingers  small  and  white, 
Ply  the  shining  needles,  busily, 

From  early  morn  till  night. 


She  sits  by  the  window,  knitting,  see  ! 

As  ehc  closely  bends  her  head, 
And  over  the  needles,  rapidly 

Wravrth  the  colored  thivad  ; 

Wcave4h  the  colored  thread, 

As  she  closely  bends  her  head, 
And  over  the  t:  '-lly. 

\Vcaveth  tho  colored  tin 


KNITTING.  115 


She  sits  by  the  window,  knitting,  see ! 

She  works  the  glittering  skein, 
With  her  shining  needles,  curiously, 

That  glance  through  the  window  pane ; 

That  glance  through  the  window  pane, 

As  she  works  the  glittering  skein, 
With  her  shining  needles,  curiously, 

That  glance  through  the  window  pane. 


She  sits  by  the  window,  knitting,  see  ! 

She  holds  it  up  to  the  light ; 
And  her  shining  needles,  cautiously, 

Pick  the  fallen  stitch  to  her  sight 

Pick  the  fallen  stitch  to  her  sight, 

As  she  holds  it  up  to  the  light 
Her  shining  needles,  cautiously, 

Pick  the  fallen  stitch  to  her  sight. 


She  site  by  the  window,  knitting,  see ! 

From  morn  to  the  evening's  close, 
And  her  shining  needles,  busily, 

Are  weaving — what  ?  who  knows  ? 

Are  weaving — what  ?  who  knows  ? 

From  morn  to  the  evening's  close 
Her  shining  needles,  busily, 

Are  v,T;r.  in. 


A  CHANGE. 


SHK  glided  down  (he  mazy  dance, 

All  eyes  upou  her  glancing, 
And  everybody  vowed,  who  saw, 

'Twas  floating  more  than  dancing; 
The  bluest  eye,  the  rosiest  cheek, 

A  lip  like  morning  weather, 
When  on  the  flower  and  grass  you  have 

The  dew  and  sun  together. 


The  beaux,  half  crazy,  seemed  intent 

Upon  their  own  destruction, 
And  crowding  round  her,  where  she  sat, 

Begged  for  an  introduction  ; 
And  everybody  sought  her  hand, 

And  everybody  wondcml 
If  she  were  worth  a  thousand,  or 

\V<  n    -Ani-lli  a  cool  live  hundred 


A   CHANGE.  117 


Again  she  glided  down  the  dance, 

A  single  season  after, 
And  there  was  still  as  much  of  fun, 

Of  music,  mirth  and  laughter ; 
Her  cheek  was  still  as  fair  and  sweet, 

Her  lip  as  soft  and  rosy, 
But  yet  about  her  charms  the  beaux 

Had  grown  most  strangely  prosy ! 


A  fellow  in  a  white  cravat 

And  vest  of  latest  trimming, 
Through  waltz  with  her  and  through  quadrille 

Familiarly  was  swimming. 
And  when  the  dance  was  done,  I  saw 

Her  fan  and  salts  he  carried, 
And  then  the  thing  was  clear  enough, 

Alas !  the  girl  was  married  ! 


THE  AMERICAN. 


HALF  covered  by  the  wild  woodbine 

And  scented  by  the  brake, 
O  'er  shadowed  by  the  princely  pine 

And  mirrored  in  the  lake, 
Oh,  dearer  far,  to  him,  than  all 

The  pomp  of  foreign  lands, 
The  humble  cot  his  labor  builds 

With  free,  unshackled  hands. 


He  gazes  on  his  mother-land. 

Her  rivers  rolling  by, 
Her  monarch  mountains,  as  they  stand, 

Their  blue  peaks  in  the  sky, 
To  brave  the  fury  of  the  storms 

That  round  their  heads  have  birth, — 


THK    AMERICAN.  119 


Her  plains  where  life  in  all  its  forms 
Wakes  from  the  nursing  earth — 

And  asks  himself,  with  manly  pride, 
Where  is  the  land  like  this, 

Of  mountain,  flood  and  prairie  wide 
And  solemn  wilderness  ? 


While  others  boast  of  lordly  hall, 

Of  regal  pomp  and  pride, 
Of  fallen  mosque  and  mouldering  wall 

And  fields  where  Kings  have  died ; 
Of  crumbling  tombs  and  monuments, 

Round  which,  when  time  was  young, 
The  wandering  Arabs  pitched  their  tents 

And  wild  war  chants  wore  sung ; 


Of  banners  brave  and  flags  that  love 

To  look  on  riven  shields, 
Whose  haughty  folds  have  waved  above 

A  thousand  battle  fields  ; 
Of  Bannockburn,  Pultowa's  day, 

Napoleon's  bloody  star, 
Of  Marathon,  Thermopylae, 

Of  Bosworth,  Trafalgar ; 


120  THE    AMKKICAX. 


He  treads  the  land  of  Bunker  Hill ! 

Where  Yorktown's  day  was  won, 
Where  looks  upon  Potomac  still 

The  tomb  of  Washington  ; 
And  boasts  of  sacred  battle  plains, 

Where,  by  oppression  driven, 
A  nation  broke  a  tyrant's  chains 

With  blows  for  freedom  given, 


THE  YELLOW  CORN. 


Come,  boys,  sing ! — 

Sing  of  the  yellow  corn, 
Sing,  boys,  sing, 

Sing  of  the  yellow  corn  ' 
HE  springeth  up  from  the  fallow  soil, 

With  the  blade  so  green  and  tall, 
And  he  payeth  well  the  reaper's  toil, 
When  the  husks  in  the  autumn  fall. 
The  pointed  leaves, 

And  the  golden  ear, 
The  rustling  sheaves, 
In  the  ripened  year — 
Sing,  boys,  sing ! 

Sing  of  the  yellow  corn, 
Xing,  boys,  sing, 
Sing  of  the  yellow  corn, 


I1-".'  THE   YELLOW   CORN*. 


He  drinks  the  rain  in  the  summer  long, 

And  he  loves  the  streams  that  run, 
And  he  sends  the  stalk  so  stout  and  strong, 
To  bask  in  the  summer  sun. 
The  pointed  leares, 

And  Hie  golden  ear, 
The  rustling  sheaves, 
In  the  ripened  year — 

Sing,  boys,  sing  ! 

Sing  of  the  yellow  corn, 
Sing,  boys,  sing, 

Sing  of  the  yellow  corn  ! 


He  loves  the  dews  of  the  starry  night, 
And  the  breathing  wind  that  plays 
With  his  tassels  green,  when  the  mellow  light 
Of  the  moon  on  the  meadow  stays. 
The  pointed  leaves, 

And  the  golden  ear, 
Tlie  rustling  sheaves, 
In  tiie  ripened  year — 

Sing,  boys,  sing  ! 

Sing  of  the  yellow  corn, 
Sing,  boys,  sing, 

of  the  yellow  corn. 


THE   YELLOW   CORN. 


A  glorious  thing  is  the  yellow  corn, 
With  the  blade  so  green  and  tall, 
A  blessed  thing  is  the  yellow  corn, 
When  the  husks  in  the  autumn  fall. 
Then,  sing,  lays,  sing  '. 

Sing  of  the  yellow  corn, 
Sing,  boys,  sing, 
Sing  of  the  yellow  corn. 
The  pointed  leaves, 

And  the  golden  ear, 
The  rustling  sheaves 
In  the  ripened  year — 
Come,  sing,  boys,  sing, 

Sing  of  the  yellow  corn, 
Sing,  loys,  sing, 

Sing  of  the  yellow  corn  ! 


123 


N'IMPORTE. 


SHE  loved  me  when  my  father  held 

Bank  stock  and  cash  and  cattle, 
When  to  her  door  my  splendid  grays 

At  two  o'clock,  would  rattle  ; 
Ah,  how,  in  some  romantic  spot 

As  rolled  the  cushioned  carriage, 
She  blushed  whene  'er  I  spoke  of  love, 

Of  hope  and  then  of  marriage  ! 


At  all  the  routs  and  all  the  balls 

I  was  her  constant  suitor, 
And  Tom  and  Ned  stood  back,  because 

They  knew  I  had  the  pewter ; 
And  though  Miss  Brown  and  Mrs.  Smith 

'Twas  said  frit  rather  nettled, 
Yi-t  all  the  gossips  in  the  town 

Declared  the  thing  was  settled. 


N'IMPORTE.  125 


So  shone  the  sun,  until  one  day 

My  father's  name  was  doubted ! — 
She  only  sighed  and  wept  at  first, 

And  bit  her  lip  and  pouted ; 
But  when  the  bank  went  down,  the  sky 

Portended  stormy  weather, 
And  next  day  week  the  stocks  and  I 

Stepped  off  the  stage  together ! 


I  swore  from  twelve  to  one  o'clock. 

At  two,  was  hardly  righted, 
And  up  to  three,  I  must  confess, 

I  felt  a  little  slighted. 
'  Twas  very  hard  for  one  so  young 

To  read  the  truth  in  minion, 
That  gold  is  the  specific  part 

Of  love's  resplendent  pinion. 


No  matter  ! — let  it  pass — '  tis  true 

I  loved  with  boyish  passion, 
And  trimmed  my  hair  and  wore  my  coat 

Exactly  in  the  fashion  : 
Some  little  pains  I  took  to  please 

Her  sister  and  her  mother, 
Discussed  her  father's  Saxouii .-. 

Drank  soda  with  her  brother. 


126  N'lMl'ORTK. 


I  wrote  some  letters  which  were  warm, 

Some  sonnets  which  were  tender. 
And  gilt-edged  notes  and  billet-doux 

I  vowed  each  mail  to  send  her  : 
I  went  to  church,  if  she  was  there  ! 

Three  times  a  day  on  Sunday, 
And  asked  her  mother  how  she  liked 

The  sermon,  every  Monday. 


It  cost  me  something  lor  the  '  Gems' 

And  '  Tokens'  that  I  bought  her, 
And  something  at  the  jewellers 

For  rings  and  Orange  water ; 
And  in  my  bill  at  Brown's  I  found 

An  item  rather  thrifty, 
4  To  horse  and  chaise,  at  sundry  times' 

Some  forty  dollars,  fifty. 


•\Vcll — I  have  lived  to  bless  the  good 

My  early  lesson  taught  me, 
To  quietly  enjoy  the  fruits 

Thut  time  and  luck  have  brought  me  ; 
A  busy  hand  has  filled  my  purse 

With  many  a  golden  clinker, 
And  she,  I  hear,  on  It' 

1  •  -Toij.in-  -.•. ith  a  tinker! 


MY   UNCLE  JE11RY. 


JUST  round  the  corner,  up  the  street, 

Among  the  elms  and  maples, 
Beyond  the  noise  of  trucks  and  cars 

And  piles  of  Northern  staples  ; 
Where  ladies  never  promenade 

To  show  their  latest  dresses, 
And  where  the  loud,  uneasy  tide 

Of  business  never  presses  ; 


There  stands  a  mansion  built  before 

You  ever  saw  a  steeple, 
Ere  Treasury  Notes  and  Tariff  acts 

Had  vexed  a  growing  people  ; 
When  th'  Hampshire  Grants  were  tracts  of  land 

Somewhat  in  disputation, 
Tracked  by  the  most  untractable 

Of  all  the  YankiT  nation  ; 


128  MY   UNCLE   JEBRY. 


When  Ethan  Allen  ruled  the  State 

With  steel  and  stolen  scriptur', 
Declared  his  "  beech-seal"  war  against 

New  York  and  took  and  whipt  her  : 
A  ganibrel-roofed,  one  story  house, 

In  front  a  tall  black  cherry, 
And  there,  a  type  of  olden  times, 

Resides  my  uncle  Jerry. 


II. 

A  man  is  he,  my  uncle  is, 

Of  few  but  meaning  words. 
IK-  always  does  up  things  by 

And  not  by  halves  or  thirds  : 
lie  never,  like  some  Yankees,  stops 

To  reckon,  'spose.  or  guess, 
But  everything  goes  with  a  Vc~ 

Ni  VitJi  \"i'-i- 


My  unele  Jerry  lias  a  ram. 

It  li.i>  an  ivory  head. 
A  present  from  Conne-  tii  u! 

N     1  liavc  heard  it  ;  :<id  . 


MY    UNCLE   JEKRY.  129 


A  hickory  stick  of  si/e  and  weight, 
And  some  had  cause  to  know, 

When  uncle  taught  the  district  school 
Some  thirty  years  ago. 


He  wears  a  rather  longish  cue 

Tied  with  a  ribbon  black, 
That  hangs  itself  most  solemnly 

Adown  my  uncle's  back. 
He  has  a  shell  tobacco-box, 

A  relict  of  Queen  Ann, 
A  Dutchman's  name  is  on  the  lid. 

'  Tis — something  after  Van. 


My  uncle  Jerry  wears  his  shoes 

With  buckles  on  the  top, 
I  shouldn  't  wonder  once,  if  he 

Was  something  of  a  fop  ! 
When  he  was  young  and  in  his  prime, 

And  huskins  were  in  vogue, 
I've  heard  some  ancient  spinsters  say 

He  was  a  "  wicked  rogue  3" 


ISO  MY     I'NCI.l;    JKRKY. 


And  even  now,  wheu  dwelling  on 

His  days  of  youth  and  glory, 
He  '11  make  my  Aunt  look  daggers  with 

Some  rude  and  rakish  story, — 
You  *d  laugh  to  see  him  cock  his  eye, 

As  by  the  light-stand  sitting, 
She  knits  her  brow  to  find  the  stitch 

She  'd  just  dropped  in  her  knitting  ! 


III. 

He  talks  of  politics,  sometimes. 
Although  he  never  spends 

Much  time  or  sense  in  latter  year* 
Disputing  with  his  friends. 

Though  somewhat  pugilistic,  once, 
And  famous  in  a  row, 

The  men,  he  fought,  he  says  are  dead- 
Shan  't  fight  their  children,  now ! 


But  if  you  'd  know  what  times  we  had 
With  tTohn  Munro  and  Tryon, 

The  mighty  stir  they  made  about 
Tho  pcoplr'5  Matthew  Lyon  ; 


MY    UNCLE   JERRY.  131 


Or  anything  of  matters  when 
Our  freedom  we  were  winning, 

lie  '11  talk  from  dark  to  twelve  o'clock, 
And  that,  for  a  beginning. 


He  '11  tell  you  how,  in  '83 

To  Guilford,  Allen  went, 
To  quell  in  the  Republic,  there, 

Some  little  discontent ; 
The  time,  you  know,  the  Colonel  swore, 

And  looked  upon  their  farms 
He  'd  Sodom-and-Gomorrah  '  em, 

If  they  did  'nt  stack  their  arms ! 


And  how  the  Yorker  part  stood  out, 

And  swung  their  scythes  and  axes, 
And  swore  by  all '  twas  black  and  white 

They  wouldn  't  pay  their  taxes ; 
And  how  at  last,  they  gave  it  up, 

But  still,  how  long  and  sadly, 
Though  forced  to  yield,  they  growled  and  swore 

About  one  S.  R.  Bradlev. 


1JJ2  MY    UNCLE   JERRY 


He  '11  tell  you  how  for  years  we  lived 

Without  a  constitution, 
And  put  tin-  laws  we  made,  in  force 

With  perfect  execution ; 
When  the  Prophets  and  Committees  were 

Our  only  Legislators, 
And  Seth  and  Ethan,  of  the  law, 

The  sole  administrators. 


How  John  Munro  came  on,  one  day, 

With  all  his  Yorker  train, 
And  took  Ili-nicmlicr  l>akcr  tip, 

And — set  him  down  airain. 
How  one  Ben  Hou<rh,  who  practised  law 

And  freedom  in  his  speech, 
Received  in  full  for  services 

A  fine  hack-load 


There's  much,  he  says,  about  Vermont, 

For  history  and  so 
Much  to  be  written  yet,  and  much 

That  has  been  written  wrong. 


MY   UNCLE   JERKY.  133 


The  old  thirteen,  united,  fought 
The  Revolution  through, 

While  single-handed,  old  Vermont, 
Fought  them  and  England  too. 


She  'd  Massachusetts  and  New  York, 

And — so  the  record  stands, — 
New  Hampshire,  England,  Guilford  and 

The  Union  on  her  hands ; 
Yet  still  her  sin^U'  slur  above 

Her  hills  triumphant  shone, 
And  when  the  smoke  of  battle  passed — 

She'd  wliipt  tlii'in  all,  aloni- ! 


Talk,  says  my  uncle,  growing  warm, 

About  the  South  and  West ! 
Far 's  I  know,  they  are  well  enough, 

Their  lands  may  be  the  best ; 
But  when  you  come  to  talk  of  men, 

You  may  depend  upon  't, 
No  State  can  boast  of  such  a  race 

Of  people,  as  Vermont. 


134  MY   UNCLE   JERRY. 


They,  independent  as  the  winds 

That  fanned  them  where  they  stood, 
They  were  the  men  who  took  old  Ti ' 

Because  they  thought  they  would ! 
They  were  the  men  who  through  Champlain 

Swept  on  to  Montreal, 
The  first  to  strike,  the  last  to  yield, 

At  freedom's  battle-call. 


Insulted  by  neglect  when  they 

For  simple  justice  called, 
With  contumely  turned  away, 

By  rank  oppression  galled, 
They  were  the  men  to  stand  alone, 

Alone  their  rights  maintain, 
Alone  their  battles  fight  and  win, 

Alone  their  freedom  gain. 


And  when  the  record  shall  be  made 
And  their  position  shown, 

Their  struggles  clearly  understood, 
Their  conquests  fairly  known, 


MY    UNCLE   JERRY.  13! 


No  noted  men  of  any  age, 
In  Jiistory  will  outshine 

The  heroes  of  the  Single  Star, 
The  Doe's-head  and  the  Pine. 


The  Aliens,  Thomas  Chittenden, 

And  Bradley,  (Stephen  Roe,) 
Paul  Spooner,  Baker,  Ilaswell,  Hunt, 

And  many  more,  you  know  ; 
Seth  Warner,  Fassctt,  Tichenor, 

The  Robinsons  and  Fay?, 
Are  men,  my  uncle  thinks,  to  grace 

A  nation's  proudest  days. 


v. 


But  I  can  never  tell  you  half — 

You  'd  better  call  and  see 
My  uncle  with  his  solemn  cue, 

And  buckles  on  his  knee  ; 
He  '11  entertain  you  many  an  hour 

With  things  'twere  vain  to  write, 
And  keep  you  listening  to  his  talk. 

And  laughing  half  the  night. 


MY    UNCLE    JERRY 


You  11  find  a  welcome  in  the  style 

Our  fathers  ate  and  drank, 
A  welcome  free  and  full  to  all 

With  little  care  for  rank  ; 
The  style  that  by  the  table  showed 

A  bountiful  provider, 
When  th'  parson  blessed  the  food  prepared 

And  took  his  mug  of  cider. 


lie  is  an  old-school  gentleman 

A  personage  quite  rare, 
In  these  exquisite,  modern  times 

Of  stays,  rattans  and  hair ; 
One  of  your  true  world-hearted  men, 

Whose  purse,  and  store,  and  basket, 
Whose  hearth,  and  house,  and  heart,  and  hand, 

Are  yours  before  you  ask  it 


VI. 

He  never  had  a  chick  or  child, 
Though  always  fond  of  chickens, 

And  wonders  why  the  neighbors  let 
Theirs  act  so  like  the  dickens. 


MY    UNCLE   JERRT-  137 


If  /  had  children  he  will  say, 
By  old  John  Jacob  Astor ! 

If  I  had  children  I  would  see — 
I  'd  see  who  would  be  master  f 


A  very  temperate  man  is  he, 

Though  it  is  true,  no  doubt, 
He  used  to  '  train'  whole  days  when  e  're 

Th'  old  '  flood-wood'  was  called  out ; 
And  though  of  water  rather  shy, 

And  little  of  a  rover, 
He  always  chose  to  be  on  land 

When  he  was  '  half  seas  over  !' 


So  honest,  too,  that  through  a  life 

Of  sharp  and  constant  dealing, 
He  never  made  a  single  cent, 

But  with  the  kindest  feeling ! 
And  never  made  a  charge  that  he 

In  conscience  thought  was  skittish, 
Not  e'  en  the  charge  of  steel  he  made 

At  Pittsburgh  'gainst  the  British. 


138  MY   UNCLE   JERRY. 


IV. 

But  uncle  Jerry's  getting  old 

And  leans  upon  his  cane, 
He  tries  to  walk  erect,  but  then, 

It  gives  my  uncle  pain ; 
My  cousin  Ellen  ties  his  cue, 

And  reads  the  latest  papers, 
And  sings  his  favorite  songs  when  he 

Seems  troubled  with  the  vapors. 


Poor  fellow,  he  will  soon  be  done  ! 

lie  never  liked  a  bank, — 
The  chains  of  death  are  riveting, 

'  Tis  sad  to  hear  them  clank, 
I  'm  sorry — I  shall  miss  his  "  hem  !" 

And  his  accustomed, "  Jerry  ! 
I  say,  my  boy,  you  '11  go  it  yet, 

You  're  like  your  uncle,  very !" 


THE  MOSS  ROSE  THAT  SHE  GAVE  ME. 


THE  moss  rose  that  she  gave  me. 

When  we  were  both  at  school, 
When  she  was  like  a  singing  bird, 

And  I  was  like  a  fool ; 
The  moss  rose  that  she  gave  me, 

Alas  !  for  me  and  her, 
Too  late  I  learned  the  language 

Of  the  little  messenger. 


The  moss  rose  that  she  gave  me, 

I  folded  in  iny  book, 
And  years  from  then,  I  saw  it  all ! 

The  meaning,  and  the  look ; 
But  ah  !  the  days  had  long  gone  by, 

When  we  were  both  at  school, 
When  she  was  like  a  singing  bird. 

And  I  was  like  a  fool. 


140  THK    MOSS    ROSE    THAT   SHK    U.WK    MR. 


The  moss  rose  that  she  gave  me, 

That  in  my  book  I  thrust, 
The  stem  is  white  and  broken 

And  the  leaves  are  blushing  dust ; 
About  my  temples  I  can  trace 

The  gathering  threads  of  snow, 
And  the  singing  bird,  from  sorrow 

Flew  to  Heaven,  years  ago. 


GONE! 


GONE  !  gone  at  last,  in  brighter  skies, 

To  his  eternal  rest ! 
Silent  and  still  the  blossom  lies 

Upon  its  mother's  breast, 
Still  folded  to  that  faithful  heart 
As  though,  alas !  they  could  not  part. 


ii. 


Though  early  with  the  morning  sun, 
They  bore  the  child  away, 

And  laid  him  where  the  waters  run, 
And  where  the  soft  winds  play, 

And  now  the  day  his  course  fulfils 

Behind  the  glowing  western  hills ; 


142  GONE  ! 


Yet  there  with  tears  and  folded  hands, 
And  lips  dumb  with  despair, 

The  mother  by  the  cradle  stands 
As  though  her  boy  were  there  ; 

Its  last  dear  bed  with  tears  is  wet — 

She  hath  not  strength  to  move  it  yet. 


in. 

We  buried  him  beneath  a  tree 
Just  down  the  meadow  glade, 

That  always  from  the  window,  we 
Could  see  where  he  was  laid  ; 

And  sometimes  it  seems  hard  to  bear 

The  loss  of  one  so  young  and  fair. 


UP  THE  MOUNTAIN  VALLEY. 


UP  the  mountain  valley, 

Hark,  the  rolling  drum ! 
There  our  brethren  rally, 

There  th'  invaders  come  ; 
There  our  flag  is  waving, 

There  a  gallant  band, 
Foreign  hirelings  braving, 

For  their  country  stand. 


Hark  !  the  charge  is  given  ! 

And  their  lines  of  steel, 
Freedom's  band  has  riven, 

Like  a  thunder-peal ; 
On  the  horseman  dashes  ! 

Down  the  hirelings  go  ! 
And  the  cannon  flashes 

O  'er  a  flying  foe. 


144  UP   THK    MOfXTAIX   VALLEY. 

Up  the  mountain  valley, 

Jn  the  setting  sun, 
There  our  brethren  rally, 

And  the  fight  is  done ; 
Kchoes  through  tin1  gorges, 

As  th'  invaders  flee, 
'  Death  to  him  who  forges 

J-Ytt<T<  for  the  free!' 


LOVE'S  VAGARIES. 


LITTLE  Love  got  mad  one  morning  in  May, 

'  Twas  one  of  his  whimsical  days, — 
And  he  swore  in  his  wrath,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 

That  the  very  old  chap  he  would  raise  ! 
So  he  mounted  the  back  of  a  young  butterfly, 
That  he  caught  on  the  blow  of  a  tliistle  just  by, 
And  over  his  shoulder  he  slung  in  a  trice 
His  bow  with  a  quiver  of  arrows  so  nice, 
And  vowing  to  take,  in  the  space  of  an  hour, 
Full  vengeance  on  all  who  had  scouted  his  power, 
He  threw  his  bare  feet  o  'er  the  back  of  his  steed, 
And  chirruped  him  of?  at  the  top  of  his  speed. 

20 


146  i.ovi.'s   \  At;  VKIKS. 


Away  like  thr  glaiu-e  ol'the  earliest  dawn, 

He  rode  on  his  yellow  steed's  wing, 
His  bow  was  all  strained  and  a  keen  arrow  drawn 

And  set  to  the  well-tightened  string. 
A  Doctor,  long  famed  for  the  cure  of  all  ills, 
Sat  boxing  his  rarest  and  surest  new  pills, 
And  his  rain  water  drops  and  his  ground  rotten  wood, 
Ha!  ha  !  said  the  Doctor,  they're  all  just  as  good! 
Twang  went  the  bow  !  and  the  poor  Doctor's  face 
Grew  pale  like  a  man 's  in  a  critical  case  ; 
Love  left  him  preparing  with  cunningest  art 
A  pill  to  relieve  an  attack  of  the  heart. 


Away  like  t!io  glance  of  the  earliest  dawn, 

Love  rode  on  his  yellow  steed's  wing, 
ill-  bow  jsgain  j-trained  and  a  keen  arrow  drawn, 

And  set  to  the  •well-tightened  string. 
A  Lawyer  well  known  for  his  quips  and  his  cranks, 
And  the  way  he  had  played  very  fine  legal  pranks, 
Was  preparing  a  case  just  to  come  to  the  stand, 
While  the  fees  from  Ixith  parties  he  held  in  his  hand ; 
Twang  went  the  Ixnv  !  and  the  poor  Lawyer's — la! 
Looked  as  though  in  tlie  CMC  he'd  dix-overed  a  flaw, 
And  the  lik>t  of  hi    i.i-;r  t:-  <•  ihat  any  MIC  knew 
Tli-    ijeiiii:  aii-1  jij.  .Mill!;.'  ,\.i     .!<-adin     for  Sue 


J.OVKS     VACAUIKS.  HI 


Away  like  the  glance  of  the  earliest  dawn, 

•  Love  fled  on  his  yellow  steed's  wiii'_r, 
His  bow  again  strained  and  a  fresh  anmv  drawn, 

And  set  to  the  well-tightened  string. 
A  Clergyman  who  for  some  twenty  years  stood, 
And  preached  to  his  flock  as  a  clergyman  should, 
With  fearful  precision  that  moment  had  hurled 
A  bolt  at  the  devil,  the  flesh  and  the  world  : 
Twang  went  the  bow !  '  tis  reported  when  next 
He  preached  to  his  flock  lie  had  taken  a  text, 
And  had  by  authority  perfectly  shown, 
That  for  man  '  twas  not  good  that  he  should  be  alone. 


Away  like  the  glance  of  the  earliest  dawn, 

Love  fled  on  his  yellow  steed's  wing, 
His  bow  again  strained  and  a  fresh  arrow  drawn, 

And  set  to  the  well-tightened  string. 
An  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum,  up  stairs, 
Directing  the  ways  of  all  human  aflairs, 
And  stealing  '  original'  quietly  out 
From  a  pile  of  exchanges  he  'd  scattered  about ; 
Twang  went  the  bow !  but  the  editor's  eye 
Never  turned,  for  he  thought '  twas  the  bite  of  a  fly ! 
The  arrow  that  bounded  away  from  his  side 
Like  pigeon-shot  from  th'  rhinoceros'  hide, 
On  the'  exchange  he,  was  cutting,  unluckily  flew, 
An  I  !i  jnit  snipped  it  in  tvro  ! 


i  H  !•:  L  ATI;  si-;  A  SON. 


THK  skies  arc  clouded  and  the  hail 
Drives  at  the  window  all  the  day, 

And  through  the  gloomy  evening,  Avail 
Uneasy  winds  along  the  way  ; 

No  herald  of  the  promised  flowers 
Above  the  cheerless  plain  appt 

And  April's  cold,  uugcnial  shower- 
Fall  to  the  earth  like  frozen  tears. 


With  freezing  nights  and  days  o'cn  ., 
Stern  Winter  !  still  thy  reign  is  here. 

To  vex  the  husbandman  and  blast 
The  promise  of  the  opening  year  ; 

And  though  the  month  is  far  behind 
When  shouting  troops  of  childn 

The  lusty  Aries,  and  bind 
wreiith  ;il>ont  '•• 


THE   LATE   SEASON.  M9 


Still  thou  art  building  o  'cr  the  streams, 

The  agile  skater's  glassy  floor, 
And  shaping  in  the  moon's  cold  beams 

Fantastic  shadows,  while  the  roar 
Of  dismal  winds  is  heard  at  night 

Upon  the  mountain,  and  below, 
The  valley  still  is  cold  and  white, 

And  cheerless  with  the  drifting  snow. 


How  long  shall  bud  and  blossom  wait 

For  thy  departure  ?     It  is  time 
To  hear  the  whippowil,  the  prate 

Of  birds  about  their  nests,  the  cliimo. 
Of  running  waters  by  the  way, 

The  busy  swallows  at  the  caves, 
And  soft-winged  zephyrs  out  at  play 

Among  the  grass  and  growing  leaves. 


The  seed  is  waiting  for  the  plough, 

While  o  'cr  his  wet  and  dreary  land, 
The  husbandman  with  gloomy  brow 

Sees  still  the  frozen  waters  stand, 
And  as  with  stinted  measure,  he 

Doles  the  last  labors  of  the-  flail, 
Doubts  if  he  have  not  lived  to  see 

The  seed-time  and  the  harvest  fail. 


ISO  'lilt    J.ATk:    SKASON. 


Mark  how,  sometimes,  'tis  seen,  that  Wrong, 

Scowling  upon  the  dawning  light ! 
Will  gather  up  his  knotted  thong 

And  scourge  and  buffet  back  the  Right ! 
But  mark  how  soon,  o'er  all  the  earth, 

His  hist  black  day  of  hate  is  won  ! 
How  Time's  full  travail  with  the  birth 

Of  radiunt  Truth  comes  surely  on ! 


So  he  shall  have  his  day,  stern  child 

Of  tempests!  soon,  his  frosty  locks, 
Shorne  from  his  brow  by  zephyrs  mild, 

Shall  he  depart,  and  grazing  flocks 
Shall  crop  the  grass  the  clouded  sun 

Has  checked  awhile ;  in  summer  hours 
Above  his  grave,  shall  children  run 

And  wreath  their  hair  with  gathered  flowers. 


Lo  !  southward,  where  th'  horizon's  verge 

Sinks  its  blue  circle  from  the  eye, 
Where  still  the  burly  tempests  urge 

Their  fierce  authority,  the  sky 
With  milder  hue  begins  to  glow, 

And  clouds,  that  in  the  atmosplu  n- 
Bosom  soft  gales  and  rain-drops,  grow 

Blushful  with  the  returniii''  vear. 


HIE    LATE    SEASON.  151 


Not  long  can  seasons  late,  or  storms 

Keep  back  the  seed-time,  and  the  grain, 
That  nature  in  her  bosom  warms, 

Shall,  in  its  own  clue  time,  again, 
Put  forth  the  promised  blade ;  and  though 

Untimely  frosts  and  rains  delay 
The  ear,  yet  shall  the  full  corn  grow 

And  ripen  for  the  harvest  day. 


COME  SING  ME  THE  SONG. 


COME  sing  mo  the  song  that  you  sang  years  ago, 

When  we  sat  by  the  soft-flowing  brook, 
With  the  flowers  we  had  picked  from  the  bank,  in  each 

hand, 

And  the  light  of  first-love  in  each  look ; 
Though  the  green  grass  has  faded,  and  withered  the 

flowers, 

That  our  forms  in  that  summer  day  pressed, 
And  more  loves  than  one  in  each  bosom  have  been 
Since  that  a  too  well  cherished  guest ; 

Yet,  siny  me  the  song  that  you  sang  years  ago, 

When  we  sat  by  the  soft-flowing  brook, 
With  the  flowers  we  had  picked  from  the  bank  in 

each  hand, 
And  the  light  of  first  love  in  each  look. 


COMB   SING    ME    THE   SONG.  153 


Come  sing  me  the  song  that  you  sang  years  ago, 

When  your  cheek  like  the  morning  was  fair, 
When  the  sweet-elder  blow  and  the  strawberry  vine 

I  twined  in  the  curls  of  your  hair ; 
Though  your  cheek  has  grown  pale,  and  your  hair  has 

grown  gray, 

And  your  lip  lost  its  mulberry  red, 
And  a  thousand  bright  hopes  that  we  talked  over  then 
Like  the  passion  that  nursed  them,  has  fled ; 
Yet  sing  me  the  song  that  you  sang  years  ago, 

When  we  sat  by  the  soft-flowing  IrooL; 
With  the  flowers  we  had  picked  from  the  lank  in 

each  hand, 
And  the  light  ofjir.it  lore  in  each  look. 


SO.\«  OF  THE  VERMONTERS. 


BEFORE  THE  BATTLE  OF  TLATTSBURGH. 


HK  who  hath  still  left  of  two  hands  but  one, 

With  that  let  him  grapple  a  sword, 
And  he  who  hath  two,  lot  him  handle  a  gun, 

And  forward,  boys!  forward!  the  word. 
The  murmuring  sound  of  the  fierce  battle-tide 

Already  resounds  from  afar, 
Forward,  boys!  forward  on  every  side, 

For  Vermont  and  her  {flittering  star! 


Who  lingers  l>ehind  when  the  word  has  passed  down 

That  the  enriny  swarm  o'er  the  line  V 
When  he  kimws  in  tho  heart  of  a  North  border-town 

Their  glittering  bayonets  shine? 
Push  on  to  the  North  !  the  fierce  battle-tide 

Already  resound*  from  afar! 
P'lsh  on  to  the  North,  from  every  side. 

For  Vermont  and  her  "littering  star  ! 


SONG    OF    THE    VERMONTER3.  155 


Forward !  the  State  that  was  first  in  the  fight 

When  Allen  and  Warner  were  here, 
Should  not  be  the  last  to  strike,  now,  for  the  right, 

Should  never  be  found  in  the  rear ! 
Then  on  to  the  North  !  the  fierce  battle-tide 

Already  resounds  from  alar, 
Push  on  to  the  North,  from  every  side 

For  Vermont  and  her  glittering  star  ! 


Hark !  booms  from  the  lake,  and  resounds  from  the 
land, 

The  roar  of  the  conflict — push  on  ! 
Push  on  to  the  North !  on  every  hand 

Our  Boys  to  the  rescue  have  gone  ; 
Forward  !  the  State  that  was  first  in  the  fight 

Wlien  Allen  and  Warner  were  here, 
Should  not  be  the  last  to  strike,  now,  for  the  right, 

Should  never  be  found  in  the  rear. 


HUBERT  THE  NORMAN. 


Yor.vG  Hubert  filled  his  cup  of  wine, 

And  drank  to  Bertha's  eye-, 
They're  brighter,  far,  Young  Hubert  said, 

Than  stars  in  winter  skies. 
Her  father  in  his  castle  lives, 

And  hates  the  Norman  line, 
And  swears  his  blood  shall  never  match 
The  blnod  that's  crossed  w;th  m;nc- 
l'-"i  iji.l  I'll  Jill  a  cup  of  trine 

And  drink  to  Bertha. <  > :, 
'1  In  H'rt  //rif/ltta-,  fur,  Youn;/  Hulitrl  said, 
Than  stars  in  icinter  skies. 


HUBERT    THE   NORMAN.  157 


Her  father  in  his  castle  lives, 
And  scorns  to  welcome  me, 
lie  hate?  the  lineage  of  the  men 
Who  crossed  the  stormy  sea. 
But  though  I  own  nor  land  nor  halls, 

My  blood  is  bold  and  strong, 
And  Bertha  listens  when  my  love 
Is  breathed  to  her  in  song ; 

And  so  lie  filled  his  cup  of  wine, 

And  drank  1o  Bertha's  eyes, 
They're  lriyhier,far,  Young  Hubert  said, 
Than  stars  in  winter  skies. 


And  though  I  own  nor  land  nor  halls, 

My  blood  is  free  and  bright, 
And  strength  is  in  my  arm  to  strike 

When  needful,  for  the  right. 
And  what  is  it  to  me,  or  you, 

Whose  name  a  man  may  bear, 
If  in  his  heart  be  loyal  blood, 
And  fealty  to  the  fair  V 

And  so  lie  filled  liia  ct.//>  <>/'  trim  , 

A, id  drunlc  to  I'.i-rt/.ii't  >  yes, 
They're  brighter,  far,  Young  Hubert  said, 
77  •   •  stars  in  r'     • 


158  IlL'BKin     THE   XOliMAX. 


And  whut  is  it  to  me  or  you 

"Whose  name  a  man  may  bear? 
The  things  In-  does,  and  not  the  name, 

Tell  if  the  man  be  there. 
And  what  are  names  and  blood,  but  chance  ? 

The  noblest  in  the  land, 
I-  In-  of  bravest  deed  and  thought, 
Of  strongest  heart  and  hand. 

And  so  hcjlllcd  his  cup  of  wine, 

And  drank  to  Bertha's  eyes, 
They're  brighter,  far,  Young  Hubert  na 
Than  stars  in  winter  skies. 


And  what  is  blood  and  name  but  chance — 

And  titles,  when  they  show 
What  great  things  did  somebody  else, 

An  hundred  years  ago  '/ 
'  Tis  he  who  does  the  things  himself, 

And  hares  his  breast  and  brow 
To  do,  with  purpose  true  and  strong, 
That  \\hirh  is  wanting,  now; 

.I/-'/  *n  In:  /illr.il  his  cnj>  nf  trim  , 

.I//'/  ih'/ud-  in  ]',<-i-ilia's  cy<.<, 
•'/'/•'// Y<   //;•////,/,  /•.  f,n;    Y,n<i<n  Hut,,  ,-f  „< 


HUBERT   THE   NORM  AX.  159 


But  Saxon  Harold's  eyes  were  sharp  ; 

When  Hubert  crossed  his  door, 
He  saw  the  blush  on  Bertha's  cheek — 

And  Hubert  came  no  more ! 
But  yet  the  Xorman  youth  disdained 

To  yield  to  idle  fears, 
Perhaps,  said  he,  I  may  be  back, 
Before  a  thousand  years ! 

And  still  hcjilled  his  cup  of  wine, 

And  drank  to  Berthas  eyes, 
They're  brighter, far,  Young  Hubert  said. 
Than  star*  in  winter  skies. 


There  lived  from  Harold's  to  the  North, 

A  Norman,  grim  and  bold, 
Sir-named  the  old  Gray  Wolf,  who  had 

Of  Bertha's  fame  been  told; 
And  when  the  feast  was  high,  and  frothed 

The  goblet  to  the  brim, 
JIc  swore  the  Saxon  wench  should  fill 
The  flowing  wine  for  him. 

Ami  so  the  Gray  Wolf  filed  a  cup, 
And  drank  to  Bertha's  eyes, 
ry'n  hi-ii/lili  r.  fur.  lii.-i  lawyer  suiif/. 

I.    }<  ,' 


160  HUBERT    THE   XORMAN. 


To  Harold's  castle  straight  he  sent 

A  serf  of  trusty  c:\ro. 
And  bade  him  of  the  Saxon  sire, 

Demand  the  daughter  fair ; 
And  while  he  waited  answer  back, 

By  herald  and  decree, 
Through  all  liis  wide  domain  wore  heard 
Loud  song  and  revelry. 

And  every  cup  teas  filled  with  wine 

And  drained  to  Bertha's  eyes, 
They're  brighter,  far,  the  Gray  Wolf  said, 
Than  stars  in  winter  skies. 


But  Saxon  Harold  scorned  to  wed 

His  daughter  in  such  wise, 
And  from  his  gate  the  Norman's  serf 

Ilr  drove  with  flashing  eyes, 
And  bade  him  tell  the  old  Gray  Wolf, 

No  robber-Norman  hound, 
Should  ever  set  his  foot,  and  live, 
Within  his  castle  ground. 

.lii'l  ih'.n  he  Jilted  a  cup  of  wine, 

Ami  <!rtink  In  /iirf/ifi's  f-ys, 
They're  far  too  li-iyht,  old  JIarnid  fui,l, 
\'iirrmm  /ton  I/)  priz- . 


ii i: man   TIIJ.  \<>KM.\-.  161 


Up  rose  the  old  Gray  Wolf  when  brought 

His  serf  the  answer  back, 
Up  rose  the  old  Gray  Wolf 'and  howled 

To  arms  his  drunken  pack ; 
And  forth  he  went  with  shout  and  yell 

That  rang  through  all  the  land. 
And  fiercely  round  his  bristling  head 
lie  swung  his  gleaming  brand, 

Ami  filled  a  Jni/ji-  <iml  f nibbling  cup, 

And  drank  to  Bertha's  eyes, 
We  'II  know  iftfu'y  <in-  brigkterfar, 
Thau  xt tir*  in  n'ht/'r  x 


And  stoutly  did  old  Harold  fight, 

But  soon  the  iron  hand 
Of  Norman  robber,  bold  and  grim. 

Lay  heavy  on  his  land  ; 
His  flocks  along  his  wasted  fields 
Were  scattered  like  the  leaves, 
And  fed  the  Wolf  his  hungry  host 
Upon  his  fattest  beeves ; 

Yet  still  lie  filled  Ids  cup  of  wine, 

And  drank  to  Bertha's  eyes, 
They're  far  too  bright,  old  Harold  said, 

For  Normal'  <\<>n  I"  prize. 
11 


162  HUBERT    THE   NORMAN. 


And  stoutly  did  old  Harold  fight, 

Against  the  Norman  hound, 
But  soon  within  his  castle  wall 
Bis  trusty  serfs  were  bound ; 
Yet  stoutly  did  he  sally  forth 

Against  his  howling  foe, 
And  Saxon  hate  for  Norman  blood 
Was  in  each  deadly  blow. 

And  still  he  filled  Ms  cup  of  wine, 

And  drank  to  Bertha's  eyes, 
They're  far  too  bright,  old  Harold  said, 
For  Norman  dog  to  prize. 


Hut  he  at  last  was  sorely  pressed, 

And  wounded  on  the  wall, 
And  fiercely  did  the  Gray  Wolf  howl 

At  Saxon  Harold's  fall, 
And  closely  press  his  howling  host, 

Below  his  helmets  shine — 
Old  Harold's  castle  stout,  said  he, 

Shall  in  a  day  be  mine. 

And  so  Tie  filled  his  cup  of  wine, 
And  drank  to  Bertha's  eyes, 

II V  '(7  l.-i.mr  if  ;./ 

Than  stars  in  u'intu- 


HUBERT   THE   NOBMAX.  163 


Old  Harold  lay  upon  his  bed, 

His  serfs  were  worn  and  weak, 
And  by  his  side  the  burning  tears 

Streamed  down  poor  Bertha's  cheek, 
When  lo,  before  them  stood  the  youth 

The  Saxon  from  his  door, 
Had  sent  with  fierce  and  haughty  word 
To  come  again  no  more ; 

And  there  he  filled  a  cup  of  wine 

And  drank  to  Bertha's  eyes, 
They're  brighter,  far,  Young  Hubert  said, 
Than  stars  in  winter  skies. 


And  now,  said  he,  to  Harold's  men. 

Prepare  the  axe  and  pike, 
For  Bertha's  lord  and  lands,  to-day, 

A  mighty  blow  we  '11  strike ; 
The  Wolf  shall  feast  his  jaws  no  more 

On  Saxon  Harold's  beeves, 
And  ere  the  noon  his  howling  herd 
We  '11  scatter  like  the  leaves. 

And  then  he  filled  a  cup  of  wine, 

And  drank  to  Bertha's  eyes, 
They're  brighter,  far,  You»n  //•/*«•?•'  - 


164  HUBEKT    THE   NORMAN 


Ami  forth  he  went,  with  pike  and  axe, 

When,  just  at  dawn  of  day, 
Still  helpless  with  his  drunken  feast, 

Asleep  the  Cray  Wolf  lay; 
And  down  he  came  with  pike  and  axe, 

And  well  his  word  he  kept, 
For  never  axe  in  mortal  hands 
Such  fearful  harvest  rcapt, — 

Nor  stopped  he  then,  to  fill  a  cup, 

To  drink  to  Jlcrtha's  eyes, 
Though  brit/ltlo;  far,  Youny  Hubert  knew, 
Titan  stars  in  winter  skies  : 


Till  down  upon  tlu-  Cray  Wolfs  head 

His  bloody  mace  he  whirled, 
And  far  beyond  the  cattle  wall, 
His  Norman  herd  was  hurled. 
And  when  he  passed  the  castle  gate, 

His  red  axe  in  his  Land. 
And  laid  his  mace  by  Harold's  side. 
And  wiped  his  reeking  brand, 

//•  fillttl  u  brimming  cup  nf  trine, 

And  drank  ti>  l\<  rt 

They're  brighter,  fur,  Youmj  JJulx  rt  arid. 
Than  star.-  in  winter  yki<f. 


HUBERT   TUB   NORMAN.  165 


But  Harold's  wound  was  wide  and  deep, 

He  never  left  his  bed, 
And  soon  'twas  known,  in  all  the  land, 

That  he,  at  last,  was  dead ; 
But  ere  he  closed  his  eyes,  he  made 

Young  Hubert,  stout  and  brave, 
The  rightful  lord  of  all  the  lands, 
He  'd  fought  so  well  to  save. 

And  then  he  filled  his  cup  of  wine, 

And  drank  to  Berthas  eyes, 
They  "re  brighter,  far,  Young  Hubert  said, 
Than  aim-*  in  winter  skwx. 


THE  APPLE  BLOSSOM. 


HERE  's  an  apple  blossom,  Mary, 
See  how  delicate  and  fair ! 

Here 's  an  apple  blossom,  Mary, 
Let  me  weave  it  in  your  hair  ! 


Ah,  thy  hair  is  raven,  Mary, 
And  the  curls  are  thick  and  bright- 

And  tliis  apple  blossom,  Mary, 
Is  so  beautifully  white  ! 


There !  the  apple  blossom,  Mary, 
Looks  so  sweet  among  your  curls  ! 

And  the  apple  blossom,  Mary, 
Crowns  the  sweetest  of  the  girls. 


THE   APPLE   BLOSSOM.  167 


But  the  apple  blossom,  Mary, 
You  must  have  a  little  care  ; 

Never  tell  your  mother,  Mary, 
That  I  wove  it  in  your  hair  ! 


LOVE  AND  THE  POET. 


IN  his  chamber  sits  the  Poet, 
Beats  his  heart  with  feelings  dim, 

Love  is  there !  but  who  should  know  it  ?- 
Scarcely  is  it  known  to  him. 


Visions  indistinct  and  shifting, 
Pass  before  his  half-shut  eye, 

Like  the  idle  clouds  that,  drifting, 
Laze  along  the.  summer  sky. 


Hut  (lie  visions,  ever  taking 

Forms  of  beauty,  rare  and  bright, 

In  Ilio  Port's  heart  are  waking 
Indefinable  delight. 


LOVE   AND    THE   POET.  169 


Time  went  on,  the  visions  slowly 
Take  a  shape  of  rarest  life  ! 

And  the  Poet's  heart  so  lowly 
Beats  with  a  tumultuous  strife. 


Love,  at  last,  with  gentle  power, 
Opens  in  the  Poet's  heart, 

Like  th'  unfolding  of  a  flower 
When  its  leaves  are  blown  apart ! 


In  his  chamber  sits  the  Poet, 
Flit  no  more  the  shadows  dim, 

Love  is  his,  and  all  may  know  it, 
Well  I  ween  'tis  known  to  him ! 


THE  HAUGHTY  MAIDEN. 


THE  maiden  sat  beside  the  brook, 

And  gazed  upon  the  sky, 
The  summer  wind  the  maple  shook 

The  stream  went  rippling  by. 
A  noble  youth  before  her  stood, 
And  prayed  with  eaniest  tone, 
By  all  of  earth  'twas  fair  and  good 
That  she  would  be  his  own. 

But  still  the  maiden's  haughty  look 

Was  bent  upon  the  sky, 
And  still  the  wind  the  maple  shook, 
And  still  the  stream  tocnt  by. 


THE   HAUGHTY   MAIDEN.  171 


A  thousand  earnest  things  he  said 

To  win  her  cruel  ear, — 
She  only  bent  her  stately  head 
To  show  that  she  could  hear. 
With  hand  upon  his  manly  breast, 

For  he  could  not  give  o'er, 
He  urged  again,  again  he  pressed 
What  he  had  urged  before ; 

But  still  the  maiden's  haughty  look 

Was  bent  upon  the  sky, 
And  still  the  wind  the  maple  shook, 
And  still  the  stream  went  by. 


He  spoke  of  heart  and  feelings  wrung, 

Of  doubts  and  hopes  and  fears  ; 
He  told  her  how  his  heart  had  clung 

To  hope  and  her  for  years ;  . 
How,  wandering  in  a  foreign  land, 

For  her  an  exile,  he 
Had  met  her  face  upon  the  sand, 
Her  unage  on  the  sea ; 

But  still  the  maiden's  haughty  look 

Was  bent  upon  the  ski/, 
And  still  the  wind  the  maple  shook. 
And  still  the  stream  vent  ly. 


172  THE   HAUGHTY   MAIDEN. 


And  then,  at  last,  his  eye  grew  dark, 

And  pallid  grew  his  face, 
And  on  his  forehead  came  the  mark 

That  slighted  love  will  trace. 
He  turned  and  left  the  maiden's  side, 

Nor  word  of  parting  spoke, 
But  passed  with  strong  and  rapid  stride 
Beyond  the  ancient  oak. 

Yet  still  the  maiden's  haughty  look 

Was  bent  upon  the  sky, 
And  still  the  wind  the  maple  shook, 
And  still  the  stream  went  by. 


And  years  went  on ;  he  came  no  more 

To  see  the  haughty  maid ; 
His  first  wild  dream  of  love  was  o  'er, 

And  in  oblivion  laid ; 
He  passed  into  the  world  and  grew 

A  strong  one  in  the  land, 
A  man  with  pulse  and  effort  true, 
And  never-failing  hand, 

And  still  the  maid  whose  haughty  look 

Was  bent  upon  the  sk//, 
In  summer  situ,  beside  the  brook, 
•\»tf  tr'ts  tin  stream  </<•  /<//. 


TO  LIVE  UPON  HER  SMILE. 


To  live  upon  her  smile,  methinks, 

It  were  an  idle  puin  ; 
To  burn  beneath  her  eye,  methinks, 

It  were  to  burn  in  vain, 
It'  still  she  runs  and  still  is  coy, 
And  still  refuse  the  promised  joy. 


To  gaze  upon  her  lip,  methinks, 

It  were  of  little  use  ; 
To  sec  and  never  taste,  methinks, 

It  were  a  mean  abuse, 
If  still  she  runs  and  still  she  flies, 
And  still  puts  off'  and  still  denies. 


174  TO   LIVE    UPON   IIKR   SMILE. 


To  talk  of  what  may  be,  methinks, 
Were  vainly  spending  breath  ; 

To  feed  on  "hope,  too  long,  methinks, 
Were  starving  one  to  death, 

If  still  she  runs  and  still  will  say,  •  ^ 

Ah,  ha !  ah,  ha !  another  day ! 


IF  THOU  THINK  TO  WIN  HER. 

" 


IF  them  think  to  win  her 

With  a  bashful  tongue, 
Fie  !  thou  green  beginner, 

Thou  art  still  too  young  ! 
Looks  that  shun  her  glances, 

To  her  feet  'that  go — 
Make  but  poor  advances, 

Seeking  what's  so  low. 


Love  that  asks  no  pressing, 

Knows  no  daring  mood, 
Yearns  for  no  caressing, 

Dies  for  want  of  food ; 
Better  seek  to  win  her 

With  a  bold  constraint, 
Better  be  a  sinner, 

Than  a  bashful  saint 


COME  OVER  THE  MOUNTAIN  TO  ME,  LOVE. 


Come  over  the  mountain  to  me,  love, 

Orer  to  me, 
My  spirit  is  pining  for  thec,  lore, 

Pining  for  thee. 
SWEET  April  is  here  and  the  buds 

On  the  elms  arc  beginning  to  swell, 
The  meadows  look  green  and  the  flowers 

Are  blossoming  up  in  the  dell ; 
'  Tis  the  time  when  you  promised,  you  know,  love, 

To  return  to  your  lover,  :i!_':iiii, 
When  the  robins  came  back  and  the  snow,  love, 
Had  incited  away  from  the  plain. 


COME  OVER  THE  MOUNTAIN   TO   ME   LOVE.      177 


Come  over  over  the  mountain  to  me,  love, 

Over  to  me, 
My  spirit  is  pining  for  thee,  love, 

Pining  for  thee. 
A  robin  was  here,  yestermorn, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  lilac  appear, 
The  martins  around  their  old  nests, 

We  soon  from  the  window  shall  hear ; 
'  Tis  the  time  when  you  promised,  you  know,  love, 

You  'd  return  to  your  lover,  again, 
When  the  robins  came  back,  and  the  snow,  love, 
Had  melted  away  from  the  plain. 
12 


TWENTY-NINE. 


WITH  blossomed  flowers  and  growing  leaves, 

Green  grass  and  budding  vine, 
My  birth-day  morning  dawns  again 

And  I  am  twenty-nine. 
And  Time,  although  he  leaves  some  marks 

By  which  his  flight  I  trace, 
Yet  with  my  heart  has  kindly  dealt 

And  kindly  with  my  face. 


And  if '  twere  not,  as  I  look  back 

Upon  the  years  I  've  run, 
And  tracing  up  the  winding  path, 

That  I  have  slowly  won, 
I  miss  so  many  noble  forms 

That,  in  their  youthful  pride 
Stood  by  me,  but  that  one  by  one, 

Have  fallen  by  my  side ; 


TWENTY-NINE.  1 79 


And  that  the  ghosts  ol  hopes  and  fears, 

That  shook  my  troubled  heart, 
Unbidden,  will  sometimes,  into 

The  light  of  memory  start, 
But  little  there  were  left  to  tell, — 

That  I  am  older,  now, 
Than  when  a  restless  boy  I  ran 

To  kiss  my  mother's  brow. 


So  soft  has  been  the  tread  of  time, 

Like  children's  feet  on  snow, 
So  quietly  the  years  have  passed 

And  still  so  calm  they  go, 
'  Twere  wrong  for  me  to  murmur,  while 

I  scrawl  this  foolish  line, 
That  dawns  my  birth-day  morn,  again, 

And  I  am  twenty-nine. 


It  is  no  idle  thing  to  live  ! 

And  he,  who  clearly  sees 
The  thousand  snares  that  haunt  our  life, 

Sin,  accident,  disease ; 
Who  marks  how  he  escapes  this  ill 

By  slightest  circumstance, 
And  hardly  grasps  that  passing  good 

By  mere.  *ml  rarest  •  •'' j 


180  TWENTY-NINE. 


Who  notes  his  whole  existence  changed, 

Even,  sometimes,  by  a  dream, — 
His  fortune  warped  by  incidents 

That  the  most  trivial  seem, 
Will  start,  to  find  how  near  his  feet, 

In  ignorance,  have  shaped 
His  path  along  some  peril's  brink, 

That  he  has  barely  '  scaped. 


A  fearful  thing  to  live,  and  when 

My  slender  bark  has  passed 
Thus  safely  by  the  rapids  where 

So  many  wrecks  are  cast, 
I  look  upon  my  life,  and  find 

Upon  the  record  set, 
More  cause  for  joy  and  thankfulness, 

Than  sorrow  or  regret. 


SHADOWS. 


How  they  come  and  go, 
Shadows  on  the  snow ! 
Coming  ever, 
Going  ever, 
Rapidly  they  shift 
Over  plain  and  drift, 
Leaving  where  they  were 
Nothing  but  the  air. 

See  them !  as  a  cloud, 
Slowly,  like  a  shroud, 
Folds  the  darkened  moon, 
At  its  noon. 


SHADOWS. 


How  they  run  and  quiver, 
Shadows  on  the  river  1 
Coming  ever, 
Going  ever — 
Flitting  o  'er  the  stream, 
Like  the  memory  of  a  dream, 
Leaving  not  a  trace, 
On  its  quiet  face, 

See  them !  as  a  cloud, 
Slowly,  like  a  shroud, 
Moves  across  the  sun, 
Mid-day  won. 


Come  they  and  depart 
Shadows  o  'er  the  heart — 
Coming  ever, 
Going  ever — 
Wherefore,  who  can  tell  ? 
Indefinable ! 
Dim  and  dark  they  pass 
Like  vapor  o  'er  a  glass, 

See  them !  as  a  cloud, 
Slowly,  like  a  shroud, 
Settles  on  the  heart, 
To  depart. 


SHADOWS.  183 


How  they  gather  nigh, 
Shadows  o'er  the  eye ! 
Coming  ever, 
Going  never  1 
Gathering  o  'er  the  strife 
Of  departing  life, 
Leaving  in  a  breath 
The  mystery  of  death — 

See  them !  as  a  cloud, 
Slowly,  like  a  shroud, 
Passes  o  'er  the  light — 
It  is  night ! 


OF  LOVE  AND  WINE. 


OF  love  and  wine  old  poets  sung, 

Old  poets  rich  and  rare, 
Of  wine  with  red  and  ruby  heart 

And  love  with  golden  hair. 
Of  wine  that  found  the  poet's  thought 

And  winged  it  with  the  lyre, 
Of  love  that  through  the  poet's  line 

Ran  like  a  flush  of  fire. 


But  wine  when  those  old  poets  sung 

Its  praises  long  ago, 
Was  something  mightier  than  the  bards 

Of  modern  ages  know ; 
Ay,  wine  was  wine  when  Horace  drank  ! 

A  nectar  that  inspires — 
That  rouses  with  a  magic  force 

The  poets  sounding  wires. 


OF  LOVE  AND   WINE.  185 


And  Love  when  those  old  poets  sung 

Its  praises  long  ago, 
Was  something  mightier  than  the  bards 

Of  modern  ages  know ; 
Ay,  love  was  love  when  Sapho  lived ! 

A  passion  that  inspires — 
That  rouses  with  a  magic  force 

The  poets  burning  wires. 


A  NEW  EUGENE  ARAM. 


HE  cannot  flee  it ! — since  the  night, 

His  murderous  hand  was  laid 
Upon  the  weary  traveller, 

Far  in  the  lonely  glade, 
That  face,  he  saw,  upturned  and  pale, 

A  moment  in  the  light 
The  setting  moon  gave  through  the  pines, 

Has  never  left  his  sight 


The  Magi's  page,  the  mystic  arts 

Of  men  who  've  sought  to  tell 
Our  strange  and  hidden  destiny, 

By  star  and  crucible  ; 
The  thoughts  of  those  who  've  dared  to  search 

The  dark  and  the  unknown, 
Who  've  watched  the  secret  springs  of  life — 

For  years  he  made  his  own. 


A   NEW   EUGENE   ARAM.  187 


He  stood  upon  the  Appenines ; 

Where  famed  Lepanto  swells, 
And  where  Marmora  heaves  her  heart 

Along  the  Dardanelles ; 
Where,  round  her  cold  and  ice-bound  capes, 

The  freezing  Arctic  sweeps ; 
Where  still  above  her  perished  bride 

The  Adriatic  weeps ; 


Amid  her  ruins,  who  was  once 

The  mistress  of  the  world ; 
Where,  for  the  banner  of  the  cross 

The  battle  axe  was  hurled ; 
Upon  the  hallowed  mount  where  erst 

The  God  of  Abram  spoke ; 
And  on  the  hill  where  fabled  Jove 

His  wrathful  thunders  broke  ; 


On  Asia's  sands,  where  silence  rules 

With  unmolested  reign ; 
Beneath  the  Moslem  minaret ; 

Beside  the  Pagan  fane ; 
Where  Egypt's  pyramids  record 

Traditions  dark  and  dim, 
Yet,  like  a  Presence  was  that  face 

Forever  unto  him. 


188  A  NEW  EUGENE   ARAM. 


It  haunts  him  in  the  forest  shade, 

It  haunts  him  where  the  roar 
Of  rushing  multitudes  is  like 

The  sea  upon  the  shore ; 
It  haunts  him  in  the  blaze  of  day 

And  when  on  Ida's  steeps 
Her  watch  above  her  lover-boy 

The  fabled  huntress  keeps. 


He  cannot  flee  it — from  the  pines 

Where  shone  the  moonlight  dim 
The  night  the  weary  traveller  died, 

That  pale  face  followed  him ; 
And  evermore  the  pallid  brow, 

Marked  by  the  crimson  spot 
Between  the  locks  of  falling  hair, 

Where  struck  the  cursed  shot ; 


And  ever  the  half-conscious  eyes, 

The  dark  blow  on  the  cheek, 
The  pale  lips  parted  with  a  prayer 

They  moved  in  vain  to  speak — 
Are  with  him  as  they  were  the  night 

His  murderous  hand  was  laid 
Upon  the  weary  traveller, 

Far  in  the  lonely  glade. 


I  SHOWED  MY  LOVE. 


I  SHOWED  my  love  a  budding  rose 

And  bade  the  girl  beware ! 
Believe,  I  said,  as  summer  flowers, 

Our  youthful  pleasures  arc ; 
And  love  is  like  the  bud  we  see, 

Whose  heart  will  soon  be  blown, 
Most  fragrant  when  its  leaves  are  fresh, 

Ere  one  soft  tint  has  flown. 


And  she,  with  sweet  and  bashful  eye, 

Her  face  half  from  me  turned 
In  soft  confusion,  as  I  spoke, 

My  meaning  well  discerned  ; 
And  promised,  when  the  bud  I  saw 

Should  open  to  the  sky, 
That  she  my  full  desire,  at  last, 

No  longer  would  deny. 


DIRGE. 


SOFTLY  ! 
She  is  lying 

With  her  lips  apart ; 
Softly! 
She  is  dying 

Of  a  broken  heart. 


Whisper! 
She  is  going 

To  her  final  rest ; 
Whisper ! 
Life  is  growing 
Dim  withi' 


DIRGE.  191 


Gently ! 
She  is  sleeping, 

She  has  breathed  her  last ! 
Gently ! 

While  you  're  weeping 
She  to  Heaven  has  passed. 


HALF  MY  LIFE  I  SPENT  IN  DREAMING. 


HALF  my  life  I  spent  in  dreaming 

Of  a  love  I  dare  not  speak, 
In  sweet  imagination,  deeming, 

That  I  lived  upon  her  cheek. 
And  while  I  saw  her  beauty  wasting 

By  the  silent  flight  of  years, 
Consoled  myself  with  fancied  tasting, 

Lulled  with  dreams  my  rising  fears. 


And  when,  at  last,  my  heart  no  longer 

Satisfied  with  seeming  good, 
Sought,  as  its  pulse  grown  older,  stronger, 

For  a  more  substantial  food — 
I  found,  alas !  nought  but  t  If  Ideal 

Beauty  living  in  my  head, 
Which  I  had  cherished  till  the  Real, 

In  my  wrinkled  heart  was  dead. 


SWEETLY  SHE  SLEEPS. 


SWEETLY  she  sleeps,  the  maiden  fair, 

Her  cheek  on  the  pillow  pressed, 
Sweetly  she  sleeps  while  her  Saxon  hair 

Like  a  veil  lies  over  her  breast. 
Hush,  let  her  sleep !  breathe  low,  sweet  breeze, 

Through  the  folds  of  her  curtain  white, 
Hush,  bright  bird,  on  the  maple  trees  ! 

Let  her  sleep  while  her  dreams  are  light. 


Sweetly  she  sleeps,  the  maiden  fair, 

Her  cheek  on  the  pillow  pressed, 
Sweetly  she  sleeps  and  her  childish  care 

Is  forgot  in  her  quiet  rest. 
Hush  !  but  the  earliest  beams  of  light 

Their  wings  in  the  blue  sea  dip, 

Let  her  sleep,  sweet  child,  while  her  dreams  are 
bright, 

And  .'i  sinilo  is  about  her  lip. 


COUNT   ZWAGERDOBFF, 


Miss  Emily  Angeline  Agatha  Jane 

Clementina  Victoria  Sleeper, 
Fell  in  love  with  the  elegant  Count  ZwagerdorfF, 

A  foreigner  just  from  the  Dnieper. 
He  had  cash  by  the  ocean  the  people  all  said, 

And  yet,  I  persist  in  it,  stoutly, 
That  never  occurred  to  Miss  Agatha's  'ma 

When  she  smiled  on  the  Count  so  devoutly  ! 


Count  ZwagerdorflT's  whiskers  were  large  and  so  black ! 

And  his  hair  lay  in  such  pretty  ringlets ! 
Who  could  wonder  that  love,  who  is  blind  as  they  say, 

Found  the  curls  tangled  up  with  his  winglets  ? 
Count  Zwagerdorff  'a  eyes — ah,  how  soft  and  how  blue  ! 

And  his  voice  was  like  zephyrs  that  mingle 
Their  murmurs  at  eve  on  the  bosom  of  June — 

JIc  wore  on  hi*  finger  a  single 


COUNT    ZWAGERDORFF.  195 


Gold  ring  with  a  stone  of  remarkable  cost ; 

His  waist  was  as  small  as  a  lady's 
And  his  cheek  and  his  lip  were  as  red  and  as  warm 

As  they  say  are  the  young  girls  of  Cadiz. 
His  feet  and  his  hands  were  of  noble-blood  size, 

And  he  trod  the  old  earth  with  such  hauteur, 
No  wonder  Miss  Agatha's  suitors  all  fled 

In  despair,  when  Count  Zwagerdorff  sought  her. 


Count  Zwagerdorff  danced  and  Count  Zwagerdorff  sung, 

Count  Zwagerdorff  played  very  finely, 
Spoke  Russian,  and  Spanish,  Italian  and  French, 

And  lolled  on  a  sofa  divinely. 
In  English  he  'd  learned  a  thousand  sweet  songs, 

Whose  virtue  some  think  rather  brittle, 
Could  repeat  Parisina,  Don  Juan,  and  all 

Of  Tom  Moore  in  his  sobriquet,  Little. 


Count  Zwagerdorff  spoke  to  Miss  Agatha's  '  pa, 

And  declared  his  affections  were  blighted, 
Unless  the  sweet  hand  of  his  daughter  were  hi*, — 

Misa  AeathaN  *p-i  was 


186  COUNT   ZWAGERDORFF. 


So  the  thing  was  all  settled  at  once,  and  the  day ! 

Ere  June  a  May  blossom  had  wilted, 
The  day  was  appointed.     The  cake  and  the  dress 

Were  done  and  the  comforter  quilted. 


Count  Zwagerdorff  sat  at  his  hotel  at  tea, 

With  a  noli  me  tangerc  phiz  on, 
When  the  sheriff  came  in,  in  search  of  a  chap, 

Who  had  broke  from  the  Sing  Sing  State  Prison. 
Count    Zwagerdorff   laughed    and    Count   Zwagerdorff 
frowned, 

But  the  fellow  grew  saucy  and  bolder, 
Walked  up  to  his  chair  with,  "  how  are  ye  my  bird !" 

And  laid  a  broad  hand  on  his  shoulder. 


Count  Zwagerdorff  looked  at  the  man  with  a  stare, 

And  called  on  the  .landlord  to  take  him 
Away  ;  then  ordered  his  servant,  black  Sam, 

To  collar  the  scoundrel  and  shake  him. 
But  the  fellow  just  gave  Count  Zwagerdorff 's  curls 

A  brush  with  his  hands  in  the  scuffle, 
And,  alas !  'twas  all  up  with  Jim  Brown,  and  his  wrists 

Were  quietly  graced  with  a  ruffle. 


COUNT   ZWAGERDORFK.  197 


So  they  marched  Count  Zwagerdorff  back  to  Sing  Sing, 

With  a  face  on  that  could  not  be  painted ; 
Poor  Agatha's  '  pa  and  Agatha's  '  ma  ! — 

One  swore  and  the  other  she  fainted, 
And,  the  laugh  of  the  town  was  the  source  of  great  pain, 

When  the  Count  left  the  place  with  his  keeper, 
To — ladies  the  moral  I  pray  you  will  heed — 

Miss  Angeline  Agatha  Sleeper. 


LITTLE  BEL. 


THREE  summers  with  their  blossoms  fair 
Have  on  her  being  smiled — 

How  glossy  is  her  waving  hair, 
How  beautiful  the  child ! 

Pray  look  a  moment  in  her  eye, 

So  like  the  blue  of  yonder  sky  1 


She  is  an  orphan,  Little  Bel, 
With  strangers  hath  she  grown  ; 

Mary  mother  shield  her  well, 
Tis  hard  to  be  alone  ! 

She  hath  no  kindred  on  the  earth, 

Her  mother  perished  at  her  birth. 


She  knows  it  not,  yet  something  brings 

The  tears  into  her  eye, 
As  closer  to  my  heart  she  clings, 

She  cannot  tell  me  why, — 
As  though  to  win  by  such  caress, 
Protection  for  the  motherless. 


LITTLE    BEL.  199 


And  sometimes,  in  her  talk  she  '11  stop 

Beside  her  cradle-place, 
Her  playthings  from  her  fingers  drop, 

And,  looking  in  my  face, 
Her  thoughts  seem  in  her  heart  to  stir, 
As  though  some  mystery  troubled  her. 


And  sometimes,  our  dear  mother's  name 

She  speaketh  sad  and  slow, 
As  though  to  her  '  twere  not  the  same, — 

And  yet  she  cannot  know, — 
She  sleepeth  on  the  same  fond  breast, 
That  all  of  us  in  childhood  pressed. 


It  may  be,  while  the  orphan  sleeps, 

So  sinless  she,  and  mild, 
Her  mother's  angel  spirit  keeps 

Communion  with  her  child ; 
That  in  her  dreams  she  vaguely  learns 
The  loss  of  that  for  which  she  yearns. 


MILL  MAY. 


THE  strawberries  grow  in  the  mowing,  Mill  May, 

And  the  bob-o'-link  sings  on  the  tree, 
On  the  knolls  the  red  clover  is  growing,  Mill  May, 

Then  come  to  the  meadow  with  me ! 
We  '11  pick  the  ripe  clusters  among  the  deep  grass, 

On  the  knolls,  in  the  mowing,  Mill  May, 
And  the  long  afternoon  together  we  '11  pass, 

Where  the  clover  is  growing,  Mill  May. 


Come !  come,  ere  the  season  is  over,  Mill  May, 

To  the  fields  where  the  strawberries  grow, 
While  the  thick-growing  stems  and  the  clover, 

Shall  meet  us  wherever  we  go ; 
We  '11  pick  the  ripe  clusters  among  the  deep  grass, 

On  the  knolls,  in  the  mowing,  Mill  May, 
And  the  long  afternoon  together  we  '11  pass, 

Where  the  clover  is  growing  Mill  May. 


MILL   MAY.  201 


The  sun,  stealing  under  your  bonnet,  Mill  May, 

Shall  kiss  a  soft  glow  to  your  face, 
And  your  lip,  the  strawberry  leave  on  it,  Mill  May, 

A  tint  that  the  sea-shell  would  grace  ; 
Then  come !  the  ripe  clusters  among  the  deep  grass 

We  '11  pick  in  the  mowing,  Mill  May, 
And  the  long  afternoon  together  we  '11  pass, 

Where  the  clover  is  growing,  Mill  May. 


SPRING-TIME. 


THE  earth  is  green  again.    Th'  upshooting  blade 
Pierces  the  sullen  mould,  and  from  its  bed 

The  flower,  where  round  the  forest  springs  were  made 
The  paths  in  summer,  lifts  its  timorous  head ; 

And  clouds,  that  hang  above  the  narrow  glade, 
0  'erladen  with  the  gushing  rain  they  shed 

In  generous  bounty,  crowd  the  hill  and  plain 

With  greener  grass  and  swelling  buds  again. 


No  more  at  morn  the  sharp  and  cutting  gales 
The  watchful  husbandman  with  sorrow  fill ; 

No  more  at  night  the  hollow  tempest  wails, 
Nor  sweeps  at  noon  the  blast  along  the  hill ; 

And  save  the  drifts,  that  in  the  mountain  vales, 
Stretch  their  huge  forms,  defying,  still, 

The  sunlight,  and  the  ice  that  to  the  rocks 

Clings,  dripping  underneath  tho  cold  hemlocks ; 


8PRING-TIMK.  20$ 


No  mark  is  left  to  tell  of  winter's  reign, 
Of  cheerless  mornings  and  of  lengthened  night ; 

And  sloping  downward  to  the  blue  Champlain, 
Lie  the  smooth  meadows,  level,  green  and  bright ; 

And  crowded  to  their  tops  with  sprouting  grain, 
The  noble  highlands  stretch  beyond  the  sight, 

While  waving  trees,  with  leaves  all  fresh  and  green, 

Glance  far  the  mountain  valh'es  up  between. 


Behold !  In  vain  the  stern  northwest  defies 
The  genial  influence  of  th'  ascending  sun, 

That,  circling  up  the  broad,  benignant  skies, 
With  vigorous  heat  begins  to  run 

His  summer  circle ;  and  the  gales  that  rise, 

And  breathe  upon  the  fields,  grown  sere  and  dun 

With  snows  untimely  and  with  frosts  severe, 

Herald  the  triumph  of  the  coming  year. 


Through  all  the  day,  along  the  valley  blows 

The  warm  and  wooing  zephyr.     O  'er  the  plain, 

With  measured  bounty,  cheerful  labor  sows 
The  broken  tillage  with  the  hopeful  grain  ; 

Along  the  pastured  hills  and  woodland,  flows 
The  brook,  full-swollen  with  the  snow  and  rain  ; 

And  gloomy  fears  no  more  to  all  the  land 

Presage  a  harvest  with  an  empty  hand. 


204  SPRING-TIME. 


Distrustful,  faithless  man !    But  yesterday, 
Thy  fields  were  viewed  with  dark  and  sullen  brow, 

And,  murmuring,  as  the  chilling  snow  drifts  lay 
Above  the  frozen  furrows  of  the  plow, — 

The  sunshine  and  the  fruithful  showers  of  May, 
The  promised  seed-time  and  the  harvest,  tliou, 

Half  questioned  if  His  power  again  renew  ! — 

And  now  the  gales  are  warm  and  skies  are  blue, 


And  all  thy  seeds  are  cherished  ;  on  the  hill 
Thy  teeming  flocks  again  the  pastures  try, 

And  vigorous  sons  go  forth  at  dawn  to  till 
Thy  meadow-lands  beneath  a  cheerful  sky. 

Renewing  all  her  beauties,  nature  still 

Spreads  out  the  landscape  to  thy  gladdened  OA  e — 

On  every  hand  the  buds  of  promise  start, 

To  chide  thy  fretful  lip  and  murmuring  heart 


Let  spring-time,  now  returning,  teach  thee,  friend  ! 

For,  lo  !  up-rising  ever  by  thy  way 
Assurances,  where  'er  thy  footsteps  tend, 

That  Life  shall  always  triumph  o  'er  Decay. — 
Teach  thee  more  faithful  trust,  unto  the  end, 

In  Him  who  quickem-th  tin   >ilent  clay, 
And  from  tin-  mouldering  darkness  of  the  tomb 
Renews  the  promise  of  unfading  l>lix>m. 


A  WIFE-SONG. 


I  TOUCH  my  harp  for  one  to  me 

Of  all  the  world  most  dear, 
Whose  heart  is  like  the  golden  sheaves 

That  crown  the  ripened  year  ; 
Whose  cheek  is  fairer  than  the  sky 

When 't  blushes  into  morn, 
Whose  voice  was  in  the  summer  night 

Of  silver  streamlets  born ; 


To  one  whose  eye  the  brightest  star 

Might  for  a  sister  own, 
Upon  whose  lip  the  honey  bee 

Might  build  her  waxen  throne ; 
Whose  breath  is  like  the  air  that  woos 

The  buds  in  April  hours, 
That  stirs  within  the  dreamy  heart 

A  sense  of  opening  flowers. 


206  A    WIFE-SONG. 


I  touch  my  liarp  for  one  to  me 

Of  all  the  world  most  dear, 
Whose  heart  is  like  the  clustering  vine 

That  crowns  the  ripened  year ; 
Whose  love  is  like  the  living  springs 

We  on  the  mountain  taste, 
Which  traveller's  lip  can  never  quench 

Nor  thirsty  summer  waste. 


THE  BLIND  BEGGAR. 


HE  sits  by  the  great  high  road  all  day, 

The  beggar  blind  and  old, 
The  locks  on  his  brow  are  thin  and  gray 

And  his  lips  are  blue  and  cold ; 
The  life  of  the  beggar  is  almost  spent, 
His  cheek  is  pale  and  his  form  is  bent, 
And  he  answereth  low  and  with  meek  content 

The  sneers  of  the  rude  and  bold. 

All  day  by  the  road  hath  the  beggar  sat, 

Wearjr  and  faint  and  dry, 
In  silence,  patiently  holding  his  hat 

And  turning  his  sightless  eye, 
As  with  cruel  jest  and  greeting  grim 
At  his  hollow  cheek  and  eye-ball  dim, 
The  traveller  tosses  a  cent  at  him 

And  passcth  hastily  by. 


208  THE    BLIND    BEGGAR. 

To  himself  the  blind  old  man  doth  hum 

A  song  of  his  boyhood' s  day, 
And  his  lean,  white  fingers  idly  drum 

On  his  thread-bare  knee  where  they  lay  ; 
And  oft  when  the  gay  bob-o'-link  is  heard, 
The  song  of  the  youth-hearted  yellow  bird, 
The  jar  of  life  and  the  traveller's  word 

And  the  noise  of  children's  play, 

He  starts  and  grasps  with  a  hurried  hand 

The  top  of  his  smooth-worn  cane, 
And  striketh  it  sturdily  into  the  sand — 

Then  layeth  it  down  again ; 
While  his  black  little  spaniel,  beautiful  Spring, 
That  he  keeps  at  his  button  hole  with  a  string, 
Jumps  up  and  his  bell  goes  ting-a-ling !  ling ! 
As  he  yelps  at  the  idle  train. 

He  sits  by  the  great  high  road  all  day, 

The  beggar  blind  and  old, 
The  locks  on  his  brow  are  thin  and  gray 

And  his  lips  are  blue  and  cold ; 
Yet  he  murmureth  never,  day  nor  night, 
But  seeing  the  world  by  his  inner  sight, 
He  patiently  waits  with  a  heart  all  light 

Till  the  sum  of  his  life  shall  be  told. 


A    000  096  239    9 


